


As the Present Now Will Later be Past

by CarolineShea



Series: As the Present Now... [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/M, M/M, Offscreen death of an original character, Offscreen references to homophobia and homophobic violence, brief mention of suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 03:06:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11152938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarolineShea/pseuds/CarolineShea
Summary: Written for the 2011 Klainebigbang, with accompanying artwork by Nina/Dearthursday. Blaine and Kurt's deepening relationship dredges up some painful memories from Blaine's father's past. The fall-out affects not only Blaine's relationship with his dad, but his relationship with Kurt and his understanding of himself. Title taken from the Bob Dylan song: 'The Times They Are A-Changin.'





	1. Part One

  
  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/caroline_shea/pic/00002h02/)

 

  
_"Jessie is a friend…”_

 Drunken toga-clad members of the Pi Upsilon Pi (“Yeah, Porcupines!”) fraternity belt out the lyrics at the top of their lungs.

Outside the Porter Street fraternity house, the first of autumn’s leaves are drifting earthward. It’s September at North Adams State College, a small liberal arts school situated in the far northwest corner of Massachusetts.

_“Yeah, I know he’s been a good friend of mine...”_

A handsome boy of about nineteen with dark, curly hair and burnt-bronze eyes leans against the kitchen wall with his arms folded across his chest. He watches the group stumble their way through the song and he sings along under his breath in a clear, beautiful tenor:

 _“…and she’s watchin’ him with those eyes,_ _and she’s lovin’ him with that body, I just know it,_ _yeah, and he’s holding her in his arms, late, late at night…”_

The boy ducks his head as a girl stumbles past him and he cuts off his singing abruptly.

A large blond boy in a “toga” – a whiteish bed-sheet draped haphazardly over jeans and a black Lacoste alligator shirt – sees him standing across the wall and shouts at him:

“Hey, Anderson! Get your fuckin _’_ ass over here!” Despite the crudeness of the words, his tone is jovial. He gestures wildly toward a gaggle of party-goers in the living room, who are sloppily pouring random bottles of liquor into what he sincerely hopes is a _lined_ trash can.

 _Cuckoo juice_ , they call it. The recipe’s fairly easy to remember, even if you’re totally smashed: Enough alcohol to satisfy an army regiment and enough Kool-Aid to make it drinkable.

“Sorry, dude,” he says apologetically. “I’m waiting for Jackie to get out of the bathroom. She wants me to walk her back to her dorm; she hates being alone on campus after dark.”

“What the _fuck?”_ laughs the blond boy, his words slurring together noticeably. _“Chicks_ , man. We’re s’posed to be like their fuckin’… _checkbooks_ and their fuckin’…psychist- psychiatrists that listen to their little problems and now we gotta be their fuckin’ bodyguards, too?”

He laughs insincerely, edging away from him. “Yeah. Something like that. Catch you later, man.”

Without a backward glance, he exits the frat-house, wiping damp, sweaty curls from his forehead and relishing the feel of the grass brushing across his toes as he crosses the lawn in his flip-flops.

He catches the last remnants of the party; hoarse voices bellowing: _“Where can I find a woman like that?”_ and the faint strains of laughter, echoing in the early autumn air.

He’d lied to the blond boy; Jackie had actually left the party an hour ago, with Vicki and Lisa. She’d smeared lipstick on his cheek when she’d kissed him goodbye, and she’d told him to drop by her dorm after his Accounting class the next day.

Instead of heading back in the direction of his residence hall, he turns onto Church Street and makes an immediate left onto the Bradley Street Extension. He traverses the sprawling campus footpaths, passing no one save for a couple making out on a bench and a boy in a telephone booth, shouting drunkenly into the receiver: “Jus’ gimme another chance. Jus’ gimme _one_ more chance, babe. I didn’t fucking sleep with her, okay? I swear.” There are a few seconds of silence. “Oh, well… if _she_ says I did, I guess that’s the end of that, huh?” Another pause. “Okay, okay, fine, I fucking slept with her. But babe, I didn’ _know_ she was your sister. There was no fucking way I coulda known.”

The dark-haired boy laughs to himself as he slowly edges beyond the campus grounds toward his destination, a secluded copse of trees at the shore of Windsor Lake. It’s breathtaking this time of night - the sound of the water lapping gently at the shore; the lake and the forest bathed in the dim, silvery glow of the moonlight.

He looks around him cautiously as he heads toward the tree-grove. You never can be too careful, even though it’s true that in all this time he’s never seen another living soul here except –

“ _Anderson_ ,” comes the breathless voice. “You made it.”

He turns to face the source of the sound, a boy with fair skin and auburn hair and dark, laughing eyes.

“I made it.”

The other boy extends a strong, callused hand and he takes it unhesitatingly. Once their palms are firmly clasped, the auburn-haired boy pulls him into his arms with practiced precision. “You’re so tense,” the auburn-haired boy whispers to him. “Your shoulders feel like they're frozen solid.”

"I can't help it."

“I know, but let’s just… try and relax, okay? We barely get to see each other.”

“I'm telling you I can't _help_ it”-

“Ssh. Hey, stop, we’re okay now”-

“No, we’re not.” He pulls back suddenly. “Drew, we are _not_ okay; _this_ is not okay. I have no clue how I made it through the summer without you, and now it’s almost worse because I see you every day and I still can’t ...  god, at least over the summer I didn’t have to pretend to look straight through you every time I saw you."

The auburn-haired boy heaves a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know what to tell you. You know the rumors about me. Everyone _suspects,_ okay? If people see me with you…”

“I don’t care.”

“You _do_ care.”

There’s a long pause, during which the dark-haired boy swipes tiredly at his eyes with the back of his wrist. “Yeah, well… I'm caring less and less about it every day."

“Can’t we just”-

The sharp _crack!_ of a tree branch shocks them out of their conversation. The boys jump apart and survey the landscape with wild, hunted eyes, as if to make up for the distinct _lack_ of care they’d shown just moments earlier.

 “Shit, _shit!”_

 _“_ \- what was that?”

 They strain to hear the noise again, but the forest is silent.

“Maybe a fox or a raccoon?”

“I guess…”

They look over at each other again, a cascade of emotions flickering across their faces as the adrenaline courses through them. "Drew, I..."

“Look," says the auburn-haired boy steadily. "I know it sucks. I know everything about this sucks, but this is the only part of my week that _doesn't_ suck and I'd really like it to stay that way. Can we just... forget that the rest of the world exists for a little while?"

The dark-haired boy nods, reaching out to take his lover's hand. They wonder what it would be like to embrace during the daytime; exchanging slow, languid, lazy kisses in the afternoon sun. But they’ve only _ever_ kissed with the dark eyes of the night trained on them, where a frantic, furtive edge sharpens even the softest moments between them.

They lean in to kiss one another, anyway; it’s impossible _not_ to. Both their heartbeats are racing but they _try_ to shut out the fear and focus on the moment. They’re both worried about a thousand things – what would happen if they’re caught, what would happen if someone so much as suspected, what would happen if this feeling _never goes away_ , and what would happen if it _does_ -

By the time the moon has risen to its apex, they’re stretched out on the forest floor, kissing desperately as the leaves drift downward, as the night creatures come out of hiding.

“Drew…” says the dark-haired boy, voice shaking slightly. “I missed you this week. I missed you _so_ fucking much.”

The auburn-haired boy wraps his arms and legs around him, pulling him in closer and kissing away as much of the sadness as he can. “Nathan, come on," he whispers, his voice low and loving. "Just be here with me, okay?"

"Do I look like I'm going anywhere?"

"You look like you're a million miles away. _Nothing_ is going to happen to us, Nathan. We're here now, and we have the whole night ahead of us. Let's make the most of it."

The year is 1982.

The future is vague and ungraspable for them, and they make the same mistake that all young people in love make, which is to delude themselves into thinking they have all the time in the world.

They both think _we’ll be_ _young forever_ , and as it turns out, only one of them is right.

They have no way of knowing that two months later, a group of young men will find them in this same secluded spot and savagely make their opinions about such activities known. They'll emerge from the incident with black eyes and cracked ribs - and they'll end things then and there, for _both_ their sakes. They have no way of knowing that the dark-haired boy – Nathan – will leave the school and the state a month after the assault. He’ll transfer to a large university in Ohio, he’ll study law and politics, and he’ll ask the pretty blonde girl in his ethics seminar to the spring formal. He won’t fall in love with her, but she’ll be fun to pass the time with.

They have no way of knowing that the auburn-haired boy – Drew – will die three years later, of a mysterious epidemic that will only be talked about  in hushed, panicked whispers. When he’s diagnosed, his family will try to keep it a secret, but people will know. They’ll nod sagely and say: “It’s a shame, of course, but at the same time, only _certain men_ seem to contract it  - do you know what I mean?”

Nathan will hear the news about Drew on a Sunday in August. He’ll spend the entire night throwing up and the next day he’ll walk, hollow-eyed and shaky-legged, to his doctor’s office and ask to get tested.

He’ll test negative, but he’ll never forget the way his doctor looks at him.

He won’t attend Drew’s funeral because there won’t be one.

Most funeral homes will succumb to paranoid public perception and will refuse to accept the bodies of HIV victims.

Drew’s family will be told by their priest that not only will he _not_ conduct a service for their son, but that they will not be permitted to bury him ‘on hallowed ground.’

Nathan will turn on the news in September and watch President Reagan give a nationally televised press conference, during which he is asked: _"If you had younger children, would you send them to a school with a child who had AIDS?”_ And he will watch the President say: _"I'm glad I'm not faced with that problem today.”_

The President will say more, but that is all Nathan will hear of it, because he will walk over to the wall after that statement and yank the television cord from the outlet, which will feel much more satisfying than simply changing the channel.

Two years later, he will fall in love with an intelligent, sharp-eyed brunette named Lynn. For reasons he will never be able to fathom, she will love him back. He’ll marry her.

He’ll have a son.

And sixteen years later, that son will stand in the senior commons of his prestigious private high school and sing a beautiful lie to a sad-eyed boy. _“You and I…”_ he’ll belt out in his clear, beautiful tenor, “ _will be young forever…”_

 

  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/caroline_shea/pic/0000448f/)

 

  
July 2011

 

Kurt’s eyes fly open mid-kiss, the muscles in his back and shoulders tensing abruptly beneath Blaine’s fingertips before Kurt pulls away from him altogether, his breathing a little ragged.

“What was that?”

“What was _what?”_

Kurt licks his lips nervously. “That noise. I distinctly heard a noise, Blaine.”

Blaine looks around his side-yard, straining to see in the darkness. “I didn’t hear anything, Kurt. It was probably just a squirrel.”

“Are squirrels even nocturnal?”

Blaine shrugs. “Maybe this particular squirrel is a sleepwalker.”

“I’m serious,” says Kurt insistently. “I really hate this whole ‘covert-ops, making-out under cover of darkness’ thing. It’s… unsettling.”

“I’m sorry,” says Blaine softly. “I know it’s not ideal, but I couldn’t seem to think of anywhere else. Do you want to just call it a night?”

Kurt shifts his weight to the opposite foot, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth and glancing expectantly down at Blaine.

“No. But I don’t like the outdoors much,” he says finally.

Blaine gropes for Kurt’s hand in the darkness and clasps their palms together, reassuringly rubbing his thumb along the back of Kurt’s wrist.

“We can sit on my porch if you want,” Blaine says gently. _But you know I can’t kiss you if we do._ The unspoken reminder hovers in the air between them.

Kurt leans in closer and tilts his head down, pressing his forehead against Blaine’s. “Why,” he whispers, “is it so hard to find a place in the world where I can just kiss you? That’s all I want to do, Blaine.”

“ _All_ you want to do?” asks Blaine with a nervous half-laugh and – okay, that probably hadn’t been the exact-right thing to say just then. But he’d been trying to make Kurt smile again; to dissipate some of the tension between them. And instead it looks like he’s just made things worse.

“I don’t even know,” says Kurt solemnly. “I think I’m ready to do more than kiss you, Blaine. I mean, I _think_ I am. It’s… something I’ve kind of been thinking about a lot lately, when I’m alone.”

Blaine’s mouth falls open, just a little, and he’s glad Kurt can’t see his face very well, cloaked as they are by the blackness pressing in on them. 

“But how would I even know? As it is, we barely get to…”

“Kurt.”

“No. I know,” he says. “I know, Blaine. I know there are a million reasons why we can’t… anywhere public. You and I don’t get to make out in the back of movie theaters like normal couples. We can’t get to second-base in the Tunnel of Love ride at the Allen County Fair like everyone else our age.”

“Oh, well, you know…” Blaine keeps his tone deliberately light. “You probably wouldn’t want to, anyway. I doubt they clean off the seats between couples and I’m sure it’s pretty”-

“ _Blaine_.”

Even with his face mostly-obscured, Blaine can see the see the hard set of Kurt’s jaw and he squeezes Kurt’s hand gently, to show that he understands.

“It just… it _sucks_ , that’s all,” says Kurt, with a miserable, helpless shrug of his shoulders. “My dad and Carole have all these rules in place for Finn and I - and I know they try really hard to have everything be the same for both of us, to have everything be _fair_.”

“Makes sense,” murmurs Blaine.

“Right,” says Kurt. “Except… how do you explain that it’s _not_ fair? How do you explain that – even though Finn and Rachel don’t get to be alone in Finn’s room - that rule hardly affects them because they can basically go _anywhere else?_ Rachel’s dads don’t mind if she brings Finn home. They can go in her room. They can make out at the movies or at the park or on a picnic – probably even at the mall if they don’t get too hot-and-heavy. They can go park on a Lover’s Lane if they want. We can’t” – Blaine can see Kurt’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows heavily. “Those aren’t options for us. You and I can’t afford to take those types of risks.”

Blaine sighs. “Have you - ? I mean, I know this is a long-shot, Kurt, but have you tried talking to your dad about any of this? I’m sure he wants you to be safe”-

Kurt lets out a short, mirthless laugh. “God, Blaine, can you imagine? I mean, he’s been incredibly understanding, but I don’t think he’s going to be sympathetic to this particular plight. Not to mention the fact that I’m trying to avoid upsetting him. I don’t want him flooded with mental images of all the people in the world who hate me and who might want to hurt me just for existing. That’s why I haven’t told him about, you know… what happened to you and Steven. To be honest, I’d worry that he’d never let us go out anywhere again.”

Blaine’s spine had stiffened as soon as Kurt had mentioned Steven, but Kurt hadn’t seemed to pick up on it.

“And I don’t know,” Kurt continues. “Maybe it’s stupid, but…” He trails off, looking lost in thought.

“But?” prods Blaine.

Kurt’s voice sounds unusually small. “I’d prefer not to have to highlight how different I am from Finn; how much weaker I am and how much more likely I am to be picked on in the first place. Aside from adding to the strain on my dad’s heart, it’s just flat-out embarrassing, Blaine. Dad probably _already_ half-way thinks of me as the daughter he never expected to have and it’s just…” Kurt closes his eyes. “…god, Blaine, I don’t know.”

Blaine is both grateful and concerned to hear Kurt speaking with such vulnerability.

For all that Kurt seems to have a strong, visible support group - a loving family and a fairly large group of friends - Blaine has found that Kurt tends to keep a lot of things to himself. This is just one example out of dozens, but Blaine has a very clear memory of the day when Kurt had off-handedly referenced the Karofsky-kiss to him, several months after the fact. And Blaine had said curiously: “By the way, you never got around to telling me what your dad said when he found about that.”

And Kurt had stared back at him with wide, solemn eyes and said: “I’ve never told anyone but you.”

It hadn’t been clear to Blaine _why_ he’d been so shocked by that admission, but he had been.

At the point in time when Karofsky had kissed Kurt, Blaine had barely known Kurt at all. He’d met him once and had spoken to him for a grand total of maybe ten minutes. Blaine had introduced himself, flirted shamelessly with him in front of a group of teenage boys, bought him a coffee that, in retrospect, had contained roughly seven times the amount of sugar Kurt likes, given Kurt some advice that – again, in retrospect – hadn’t turned out so well, slipped him his phone number, and sent him on his merry way.

And Kurt had called Blaine a few days later and told him what had happened between him and Karofsky – which hadn’t seemed so strange until Blaine had learned that he’d _never_ told anyone else.

Blaine thinks of all the variations on that statement he’s heard from Kurt in the time they’ve known each other:

_You’re the only one I’ve ever told that to._

_No one else knows._

_Don’t mention that to anyone, please? I don’t want it to become public knowledge._

_No, I never told Mercedes._

_My dad has no idea._

_Seriously, Blaine, are you kidding? I’d never tell something like that to Finn._

_This isn’t the sort of thing I generally share with people._

The problem isn’t that Kurt’s a private person. The problem is more that some of the things Kurt has confessed, particularly the things related to bullying, honestly scare Blaine. He wishes he could content himself with the knowledge that a real adult knew about them. On the one hand, it’s flattering that Kurt trusts Blaine enough to confide in him, but on the other hand, he’s just _Blaine_  - he’s just himself - and he has no idea what to do about most of these things.

It would be one thing if he and Kurt were still ‘just friends.’ He hadn’t felt particularly guilty about going to the garage to talk to Mr. Hummel; he’d told himself that he was looking out for Kurt’s best interests. _This is the sort of thing good friends do for one another,_ he’d reassured himself at the time – plus Blaine thinks he _might_ still have been laboring under the delusion that Kurt was his baby-gay protégé of sorts.

But that’s not what boyfriends do, or at least Blaine doesn’t think so. If you’re equal partners in a relationship, then you don’t assume you know what’s best for the other, even if it _seems_ obvious, right? And Blaine supposes there’s a selfish part of him that just… doesn’t want to give Kurt a reason to be angry with him. This is supposed to be a beautiful time in their relationship. So what if the rest of the world is determined to keep them from properly enjoying it?

Kurt breaks through his train of thoughts. “You sure we can’t - ? Your dad won’t like it if we - ?”

“Go inside?” finishes Blaine unnecessarily. “I don’t...” God, this is _killing_ Blaine to say. “I’m sorry, Kurt. I’m so sorry. I don’t think it’s a good idea. Dad wouldn’t do anything, he probably wouldn’t even say anything, but I just think it’s… better if we don’t,” he finishes lamely.

Kurt nods, looking sympathetic but not particularly surprised.

His mother had invited Kurt to dinner a few weeks ago, and his father, Nathan Anderson, had met Kurt for the first time.

Blaine doesn’t understand how anyone could look at Kurt – beautiful, ebullient Kurt with his musical voice and his laughing eyes – and be afraid of him, as his father had seemed to be. He’d stared at him practically the whole night with a pinched, half- _pained_ expression that Blaine couldn’t even begin to fathom.

It had confirmed everything Blaine had ever suspected about his father’s opinion toward him. When Blaine had first come out at the age of fourteen, his father hadn’t seemed comfortable with the announcement, per se - but he’d told Blaine that his sexual orientation wasn’t a factor in whether or not he loved him, and Blaine had taken him at his word.

That statement of support had been tested two months later on a rainy evening in early April. Blaine has never been the type to be overly concerned with fashion, but he’d spent a good hour and twenty-five minutes of that evening agonizing over what to wear, trying on basically the entire contents of his closet, attempting to decide which combination of clothing would make him look the _most_ grown up at his first school dance.

Blaine can’t remember now what outfit he’d chosen to wear that night.

But he’d woken up the next morning in a recovery room, in the pediatric wing of Mount Carmel St. Ann’s, wearing a hospital gown with a pattern of trains and fire-engines on it.  

His mom and dad had been understandably shaken and horrified by the incident, and less than two weeks later, Blaine had exchanged his blue jeans, sweaters, and t-shirts for gray slacks and a navy-blue jacket emblazoned with the Dalton Academy crest. He hasn’t set foot on the grounds of Westerville North High School for over two years.

The school transfer hadn’t been the only change, however – it had marked the start of what Blaine privately refers to as his father’s _Straighten Out Blaine_ _Campaign_. It’s maddening. It’s pointless. But in terms of siege tactics, it’s brilliant, because it manages to be both relentless and yet _so_ subtle that he can’t directly call his father on it.

“He just has trouble understanding you, that’s all,” his mother had informed him. “Things have changed a lot since your father and I were teenagers, Blaine, and he’s having a little difficulty adjusting. But he loves you very much, honey. You mean the world to him.”

Well, maybe that’s true and maybe it isn’t. But in any case, his father’s period of _adjustment_ doesn’t seem to be finished - which is why Blaine’s standing underneath an oak tree with his boyfriend in the darkness instead of exchanging good-night kisses on his front porch.

“You should get in,” Kurt informs him, reluctantly glancing back toward Blaine’s house. “We both have curfew.”

“I know, I know,” groans Blaine miserably.

Kurt gives him a sad, resigned little smile. “Kiss me good night?”

Blaine sighs dramatically. “Man, it’s like I’ve created a monster. I mean, you kiss a guy _once_ at school just to see what it’s like and soon enough he’s expecting them all the time”-

Kurt swats half-heartedly at Blaine’s arm and Blaine laughs, drawing Kurt in closer until they’re standing with their chests pressed together, foreheads touching once more.

Kurt’s tall, and the shoes he’s wearing tonight make him taller still. Blaine tilts his face upward, stretches up onto his toes – and god, he _loves_ that he needs to do that, to lean _up_ to Kurt to be able to kiss him – and brushes their lips together lightly.

It’s a soft, teasing pressure that makes Kurt whine in frustration against Blaine’s mouth. It’s surprisingly sexy, kissing like this – just this light, barely-there drag of his lips against Kurt’s. He takes his time, memorizing the shape of his mouth, ghosting over Kurt's beautifully-shaped lips with his own and then tracing over them with his tongue. He can taste Kurt, but only _just_. He deliberately keeps Kurt on the edge, drawing back slightly every time he darts forward, keeping the kisses whisper-soft and frustratingly chaste until Kurt groans overtly, grabbing a fistful of Blaine’s t-shirt and pulling him forward, holding him in place.

When Blaine hears that low sound emanating from Kurt’s throat, he surges forward, sealing his lips firmly over Kurt’s and deepening the kiss unexpectedly. Kurt gasps into Blaine’s mouth – an action that is far, far hotter than it has a right to be – and suddenly Blaine’s no longer interested in teasing Kurt or pleasing Kurt or eliciting any particular reaction from him. He’s just a boy who wants to kiss and be kissed.

Blaine angles his head to allow for better access, and Kurt follows the movement, like a dancer, tilting his head until they’re at the perfect angle to brush their tongues together in a hot-slick-wet-sweet glide. Kissing like this is fantastic; it just feels fucking _fantastic_ to the point that Blaine’s honestly not sure why he and Kurt do anything else. They should really be doing _this, just this,_ all the time.

Blaine slides his hands, which had been cupping Kurt’s face, down Kurt’s back and settles them low on his hips. The kiss turns _hotter_ if that's possible – less controlled, more frantic, more tongue, more teeth –

One of Kurt’s hands is splayed against the small of Blaine’s back. Blaine has no memory of it getting there, but he’s acutely aware of its presence now, and the intimacy of it feels incredible. Blaine stretches up higher onto his toes, trying to kiss Kurt as deeply as he can, and the thin cotton of Blaine’s shirt rides up just as Kurt’s hand slides down a little further, and suddenly a good portion of Kurt’s hand is touching the _bare skin_ of his lower back.

Kurt seems to realize it a second later than Blaine does. Kurt makes a noise in the back of his throat that is equal-parts sexy and adorable; a startled, curious little, “… _mm_ …?” against Blaine’s mouth. As if that alone isn’t enough to undo Blaine completely, Kurt’s fingers start tracing a slow, exploratory pattern, mapping out the contours of Blaine’s skin. It’s just this side of innocent; if Kurt’s fingers dip any lower they’ll be _right_ at the swell of Blaine’s ass. In fact, if Blaine shifts just the right way, he thinks Kurt’s pinky would dip down below the waistband of his pants – and fuck, he _really_ wants that to happen – should he - ?

Kurt breaks the kiss, panting raggedly. “Blaine, c-can we… kneel or sit down or…”

Blaine groans and gladly sinks down in the grass, practically yanking Kurt down next to him. It’s a testament to how far gone Kurt is, too, that he’s willing to get grass-stains on his designer pants just for the sake of his hormones.

They dive back into kissing immediately, and they start out sitting, but the grass is so invitingly soft beneath them that they end up stretched out on their sides, with Kurt’s left leg looped around Blaine’s calf. It’s impossible to keep their hips as far apart as they normally would. It’s impossible for Blaine’s hands not to stroke along the outsides of Kurt’s thighs, eliciting a low moan from Kurt. In fact, Blaine’s finding it impossible that he’s really here, with this gorgeous boy plastered against his chest, Kurt’s voice whispering his name: “Blaine… oh my god, Blaine… _Blaine…”_

“Blaine!”

That sharp, barked syllable causes Blaine’s blood to freeze in his veins. His insides twist and his heart thuds sickly in his chest as he sits upright, then nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to stand -

As his own stupidity stares him in the face.

As his boyfriend stares up at him with disheveled clothes, mussed hair, and terrified eyes.

As his own father stares at him, not five feet away, looking at his son like he’s never seen him before.

 

  
  
_0000_

  
_0000_

  
_0000_

 

 

It’s a thousand times worse than anything Blaine could have imagined, the sight of his father standing there in flannel pajama pants and a dark blue t-shirt, looking sleep-startled and tense and unbearably _grim_.

He and Kurt had been basically writhing around on the grass – _god_ , what it must have looked like to him -

Blaine frantically tries to flatten down his hair, his scalp still tingling from where Kurt’s hands had been gently tugging on his curls. He can feel something – a twig or the long stem of a leaf – matted into his hair and he tries instead to brush off his shirt, only to find that it’s ripped in one spot and hopelessly grass-stained.

“Dad,” he says wildly. “We were just”-

“Come here, Blaine,” says his father, deadly quiet.

Kurt scrambles to get up as well, the harsh sound of his father’s voice shocking him into action. “Mr. Anderson,” he says breathlessly. “I – I’m so sorry. This was all my fault. I” –

“Kurt,” his dad says evenly as Blaine steps toward his father. “I think it would be best if you went home now. As you’re no doubt aware, it’s very late.”

“I”- Kurt casts an apologetic, half-pleading look in Blaine’s direction.

“It’s okay,” says Blaine, trying to look as reassuring as he can. And it is okay. It will be okay, right? Blaine’s a very responsible person and he’s not at all used to getting in trouble. But he’s seventeen - he’s _expected_ to mess up every once in a while, isn’t he? He glances up at his father. _Isn’t he?_

Kurt exchanges an agonized look with Blaine. He glances up at Blaine’s father and then back down at Blaine, and he steps forward as though intending to embrace him. Blaine can see the hard, determined set of Kurt’s jaw and his heart swells at the thought that Kurt _would_ do it; he’d reach over and hug or kiss Blaine and he wouldn’t care what anyone had to say about it.

But Blaine shakes his head almost imperceptibly, trying to convey a look that says: _I love you, but it would just make things worse._

Kurt nods and turns around slowly, as though he’s extremely reluctant to do so, and walks back toward his car. Each footstep Kurt takes is nerve-wracking; it seems to take him an unusually long time to get situated in his car and start the engine, and Blaine’s dreading the second that Kurt pulls away because he just has _no_ idea what to expect.

When Kur’s car finally makes a right turn onto Worthington Road, his father looks at him sidelong and gestures toward the front door.

“We need to talk,” he tells Blaine.

“Dad…”

“Not here. Inside.”

Blaine follows his father across the side-yard and up the front porch steps, chewing nervously on his lip. His dad turns to face him as soon as they step into the front hallway and shut the door behind them. "Blaine,” he says gruffly, “I don’t know what the hell you were thinking. I don't know what in the world would possess you to do such a thing  _outside_ in our yard. But I’m not stupid. I know what that looked like.”

“It was”-

“Tell me you’re using protection,” he demands through gritted teeth, not meeting Blaine’s eyes.

Blaine’s mouth falls open in shock. As far as he can recall, he and his father have literally never discussed, broached, or even vaguely alluded to the topic of sex. It’s like going from zero to sixty without even realizing the engine’s been on.

“What? Dad, no – we haven’t”- _actually_ _been having sex_ , is what he starts out trying to say.

“You _haven’t?”_ he repeats, voice rising in both pitch and intensity.

There’s something else coursing through Blaine now, underneath the shock and embarrassment – an emotion remarkably like annoyance. _Where was all this concern_ , wonders Blaine, _when I was fourteen and didn’t have access to a laptop? Where was all this concern when I might actually have needed the facts of life explained to me? Why wait until I’m practically sending off college applications to start caring?_

His dad seems to take Blaine’s silence as confirmation of his worst fears.

“My _god_ , Blaine,” he says, and Blaine is stunned to hear his dad’s voice actually _shaking_. It’s barely perceptible, but Blaine has a good ear. It’s there.

“We’re getting you tested,” he says decisively. “We’re going to Dr. Murray’s office on Monday and getting you tested.”

That is it. That is _it_. Blaine may have acted rashly tonight, but this? Not only is his dad suggesting that they’d fucked and _barebacked_ , but his dad’s practically implying that Kurt has _cheated_ on him, or that one or both of them has had indiscriminate sex –

“Tested,” echoes Blaine neutrally, resentment welling up inside him. “You know, Dad... I realize that your generation isn’t as informed about the intricacies of gay relationships. And it’s possible that I should have tried harder to educate you.”

He pauses briefly, before folding his arms defensively across his chest and shooting his father an icy, narrow-eyed glare.

“But you do know Kurt can’t _actually_ knock me up, right?”

His father’s fingers curl inward and there’s a startling, surreal moment where not only is Blaine _certain_ he’s going to be hit, but he can see it and hear it and feel it as though it’s already happened; his hands flying up in a vain attempt to shield his face, the sickening _crack_ of bone-on-bone, a sharp blossom of pain spreading outward from his jaw, the view he’ll have of the ceiling when his head snaps backward from the blow –

Blaine has never been hit by his father. But he’s been the recipient of _plenty_ of violence in his young life; he can extrapolate.

As it turns out, the image stays locked in his head; it fails to be borne out by reality. His dad just clenches his fists tightly and stares at Blaine, an unreadable expression on his face.

The silence between them is stretched and painful, and Blaine has no earthly idea how to level things out between them - because he’s not precisely prepared to apologize, but _where in the world is he supposed to go from here?_

“Please just tell me,” says his dad, maybe a shade too calmly, “if there’s _any_ _way_ in the world that you could test positive for anything. I… was your age once, too, Blaine.”

“Right,” says Blaine shortly. “I’m sure you know _exactly_ what it feels like to be me.”

“Blaine…”

“No,” he says quickly, before he can change his mind. “No, Dad - there’s no way I’d test positive for an STD.”

His dad’s shoulders relax slightly. “So you’re not having sex”-

“I didn’t say that,” says Blaine tensely. “That wasn’t what you asked me and quite frankly, I don’t see that it’s your business whether we are or not.”

Blaine is amazed at his own insolence.

He isn’t like this; _he is seriously never like this_. Blaine respects his parents. He isn’t a rude person and he prides himself on keeping his emotions decently in check, to the point that he’s generally capable of powering through the worst of his teenage mood-swings with a combination of caffeine and optimism. He just cannot understand his reaction right now. He feels startled and wrong-footed - and for reasons he can’t articulate, somehow _everything_ about this conversation is offending him, including the fact that they’re having it in the first place.

His dad has the right to punish him for missing curfew. He can ground him; he can take away his laptop or his car or any of the other privileges he’s granted Blaine. But he doesn’t have the right to pry into such an intimate aspect of his personal life. That’s between himself and Kurt.

Blaine waits for his dad to yell at him. He waits to be grounded. He’s waiting, in fact, for any number of things that could potentially occur at this juncture: An angry tirade or a disappointed lecture or an endless barrage of questions. But what _does_ happen is something he could never have expected, not even if he’d been given all the time in the world to anticipate it.

His dad grips the staircase bannister tightly with one hand and says shortly: “Here. Whatever you’re doing… do it _here_.”

Blaine’s mouth falls open comically wide, although he’s certainly not in a position to appreciate it.

“Wait – _what?”_

“You have your own room.” He averts his eyes now, staring pointedly at a spot on the wall behind Blaine and pressing his mouth into a hard, thin line. “If you go upstairs with Kurt and lock the door, neither your mother nor I will disturb you. Just be _safe_.”

Blaine needs to sit down. He needs to stand up and pace. He needs to be alone in his room with his guitar or his keyboard. He also thinks, for the first time ever in his life, that he might need a beer. Blaine doesn’t even _like_ beer - but he’s pretty sure he needs one.

“You”– Blaine starts and stops again, replaying his father’s words in his head just to be absolutely sure that he’d interpreted them correctly. “You’re actually saying you want my boyfriend and I”-

“Stop it,” his dad hisses, jabbing an accusatory finger at his son. “Just stop - I don’t _want_ you to do it all. But you’re seventeen, you _think_ you’re in love, and if you’re going to do it, then for god’s sake, do it in your _bedroom_ and not in public. All it takes is one encounter – one person to stumble across you. That’s all it takes, and then we’ll be seeing you on the news”-

The look on his father’s face is _disgust_. His father is _disgusted_ with him.

“You want another Sadie Hawkins dance? Is that it? God, Blaine, isn’t sending _one_ boyfriend to the emergency room enough?”

Blaine feels a low, sick lurch in his stomach.

“Dad…”

“Is that how you’d like me to meet Kurt’s mother? At the hospital, like I met Steven’s mom? We can bond over what _idiots_ our sons are”-

“Kurt’s mom’s dead,” whispers Blaine, looking at the floor instead of his father. He can feel his dad’s eyes on him, though, and he feels his face redden perceptibly under the intensity of his gaze.

“I’ll be speaking to your mother,” his dad says flatly, apropos of nothing.

“About what I did?” asks Blaine, his eyes widening as he lifts them - and he’s appalled at the thought, of course – but at least they’re in familiar territory now. Blaine has friends at school who’ve been through this sort of thing and he knows how these types of conversations go. There’s a protocol to these situations; a normalcy. He’ll be able to call David or Wes tomorrow and say _man, my parents are such a drag; you won’t believe how hard they came down on me. I’m not allowed out until-_

“About giving you your _privacy_ ,” his dad says slowly, as though Blaine is being exceptionally dense. “I’ll speak with her tonight and that’s the last we’ll say about this.”

Blaine doesn’t have the faintest clue how to reply. To be completely honest, his knee-jerk response is to say, “thanks, but no thanks,” because, well… _seriously_.

It’s not that Blaine doesn’t want to be alone with Kurt in his bedroom. In fact, he gets off almost every night imagining the two of them there, sweaty and twisted up in his bed-covers. He finds the idea amazingly hot - because he feels safe in his room, he supposes, and because it’s intimately familiar. Because Kurt is _home_ in the same way that his bedroom is _home_.  In his braver moments, he even confesses that to Kurt, curled up under his sheets at night, whispering _I wish I had you here in my bed_ into his phone and feeling a shiver run through him when he hears Kurt’s answering sigh.

But he tries to picture it – actually _physically_ leading Kurt upstairs, closing his bedroom door and locking it behind him, aware that his parents are heading downstairs to _give them their privacy_ – and it’s just about the least sexy scenario he can envision.

“It’s late,” his dad says flatly, breaking through Blaine’s thoughts.

He turns to head upstairs, effectively ending the conversation, and Blaine _should_ be thrilled that he hadn’t gotten in trouble, but – god, the look on his dad’s face had been nothing short of _dismissive -_

The words are out before he can stop himself.

“Dad, I’m… sorry,” he says plaintively to his father’s retreating back.

He’d sworn he wouldn’t say it; he isn’t even entirely sure he means it. But he doesn’t have to actually _be_ sorry to want to hear his dad say that he forgives him.

His father’s back answers him. “It’s late,” he repeats. “We should both be in bed.”

“But I”-

“Good _night_ , Blaine.”

Blaine stands there expectantly, stock-still at the foot of the stairs, until long after he’s heard the door to his parents’ room click shut.

He’s not sure what he’s waiting for. 

 


	2. Part Two

 

As soon as Blaine reaches his bedroom, he digs his phone out of his pocket. There’s already a voicemail from Kurt. Blaine listens to it right away, noting that Kurt's voice sounds tense and worried: “Hey. I’m hoping your phone hasn’t been taken away. Give me a call when you get this, okay? I love you so much and I’m _so_ sorry about tonight.”  
  
They usually text each other at this late an hour, but Kurt probably wants more direct confirmation that he's all right. Blaine wouldn’t mind hearing Kurt’s voice right about now, either. He slides in underneath his sheets and calls Kurt's cell.  
   
Kurt picks up on the first ring. “Blaine?”  
   
“Hey,” he says, trying to keep his voice as low as he can.  
   
“Oh, thank god. I was so freaked out when I left. What happened? Are you okay?”  
   
Blaine nods reflexively. “I am. We had… kind of an intense conversation, but yeah, I’m okay.”  
   
“Are you grounded?”  
   
“No. You?”  
   
“No, I’m fine. I pushed the speed limit and only ended up, like, eight minutes late. So… what did you guys talk about? He just seemed so”-  
   
“Upset? Yeah. He was.”  
   
“And you fought?”  
   
He pauses, turning the question over in his mind. “It wasn’t a _fight_ , exactly. Or – I don’t know, maybe it was. I don’t think I fight enough to really know.”  
   
“I was there at the coffee shop that time, Blaine. You know - after the thing with Rachel? You can fight just fine.”  
   
Blaine blinks in surprise. They haven’t brought _that_ up since it happened. “Yeah. Uh. You, too,” he offers, a little wary. “Good to know we can… both stick up for ourselves?”  
   
“Mm-hmm,” comes the reply. “So can I still see you Sunday night? You know I’m going out with Mercedes tomorrow.”  
   
“Yeah, definitely. I’d love that.”  
   
“And should I...?” Kurt pauses, sounding uncertain. “Where should we go?”  
   
Blaine toys absently with the corner of his sheet and tries valiantly _not_ to imagine how the color of Kurt’s skin would look splashed against the dark blue fabric of his comforter. “Um…” He takes a deep breath. “Here. Come here.”  
   
There is silence on Kurt’s end for a few seconds. Then: “At your _house?”_  
   
“Yeah, at my house.”  
   
“After tonight? I figured at the very _least_ I’d be banned from the premises.”  
   
“You’re not,” Blaine assures him. “My dad accused me of compromising _your_ safety, by the way, not the other way around.”  
   
“Seriously?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
Kurt groans. “Oh my god, Blaine, how in the _world_ am I supposed to look your dad in the eye?”  
   
“It’s okay, Kurt. I mean, he was a teenager once. I’m sure he did impetuous things occasionally, even if it seems hard to believe.”  
   
“I guess,” says Kurt doubtfully. “I can see that more with my dad. Like, with some of the dumber things Finn does especially. I can _hear_ my dad asking him why he’s done something so moronic, but I just _know_ that part of him is impressed. He understands Finn much better than he understands me.”  
   
There’s a half-envious, half-wistful edge to Kurt’s voice and Blaine closes his eyes, trying to fight through the haze of confusion and exhaustion. Does Kurt expect him to… negate that sentiment? Agree with it? Express regret about it? He just has no idea; he’s so completely drained.  
   
Kurt moves on. “Anyway, you’re sure about this? I thought your dad didn’t even like it when I came over _period_. You expect me to believe that _after_ tonight, it’s suddenly okay?”  
   
“It’ll be fine. We talked and it’s fine.”  
   
“But… where will we even go? Not your room, obviously.”  
   
“Yeah, my room.”  
   
“But”-  
   
“Kurt, just trust me on this. I’ll see you Sunday, okay? Five o’clock, my house.”  
   
“If you say so,” replies Kurt, sounding dubious. “Fortunately for you, I’m too tired to question it.”  
   
“Yeah, I’m about to collapse. Talk to you tomorrow?”  
   
“Mm-hmm. Love you.”  
   
“Love you, too.”  
   
“Night.”  
   
“Night.”  
  
He sets his cell phone on his nightstand, curls up on his side, and flips his pillow over so that the cooler side is pressed against his cheek. The faint, lingering scents of grass and earth and _Kurt_ hover in the air around him.  
  
Blaine closes his eyes and sleep claims him instantly.   
  
   
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Blaine wakes up a little after nine, showers, dresses, and heads downstairs.  
  
It’s a Saturday so his parents are both home, but the kitchen is empty. Fortunately, one of them was thoughtful enough to make coffee. Blaine pours himself a cup and swipes an apple and a banana from the fruit bowl on the 'peninsula' - which is actually a kitchen island that extends outward from the wall. When Blaine had been ten, he’d come home from school and gravely informed his parents that it failed to meet the geographic definition of an island. They’ve called it “the peninsula” ever since.  
  
He sits down on the living room couch with his breakfast and absently flips through TV channels, settling on a guilty-pleasure reality show. He becomes absorbed to the extent that he doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him.  
  
“Blaine?”  
  
Startled, he twists around.  
  
His dad is standing behind him, dressed down in jeans and a Buckeyes t-shirt, his salt-and-pepper hair gelled down in a style not unlike his son’s.  
  
Blaine straightens up in his seat. “Good morning.”  
  
“Morning.”   
  
A few seconds of silence.  
  
“Sleep well?” his dad asks.  
  
“Yeah. You?”  
  
His father’s expression is unreadable. “No, actually, I didn’t. I slept lousy.”  
  
Blaine tries to swallow down the sudden lump in his throat. “Oh. I’m… sorry.”  
  
“It’s okay.” His dad takes a deep breath. “I, uh, just got back from the hardware store. That hinge on the pantry door came loose again, so…”  
  
“Oh, right. I noticed that,” says Blaine, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen.  
  
His dad looks down at him expectantly. “Feel like giving me a hand?”  
  
Blaine blinks up at his dad in surprise. “You want me to?”  
  
“I could use the help.”  
  
It’s a home repair project, so he can’t _swear_ in a court of law that this isn’t just another tactic in the Straighten Out Blaine Campaign – but it feels good to be asked, especially in light of last night’s events.  
  
“Sure,” says Blaine, standing up. “What do you need me to do?”   
   
  
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It’s nice, actually, helping his dad like this – even though “helping” might be overstating things a little.  
  
His dad examines the hinge carefully and shakes his head. “I think the screws that came with the hinge might have stripped out the wood.”  
  
Blaine leans in closer and nods. “You could be right.” It’s a deliberately vague statement of support, because Blaine doesn’t have the faintest clue whether he’s right or not, but hey - he _could_ be.  
  
They head out to the garage and grab the step-ladder, a couple three-inch screws, and a screw gun. They spend the next few minutes in companionable silence, Blaine’s dad working on the hinge while perched on the ladder and Blaine holding the ladder steady and handing things up to him as he asks for them.  
  
Finally, his dad turns around and nods down to Blaine. “I think that should do it.”  
  
“Cool,” says Blaine.  
  
“Thanks for your help.”  
  
“No problem.”  
  
Blaine carries the folded-up step-ladder to the garage and his dad follows him, carrying the DeWalt. As they head in, his dad clears his throat uncomfortably and says: “So, uh… I wanted to talk to you. About last night.”  
  
Blaine stops in his tracks. He turns around to look at his dad, his heart starting to beat a little faster. “Uh-huh,” he says in a small voice.  
  
“Look, I know I was a little...?” He seems to be searching for the right words. “I didn’t mean to scare you; I think I might have and that was never my intention. But it was a very foolish thing you did, and I hope you know that.”  
  
Blaine closes his eyes briefly and readies himself to give the short speech he’d _hoped_ he wouldn’t have to deliver; the one he’d rehearsed this morning while taking his shower.  
  
“I’m sorry, too,” he says earnestly. “I really am. But I want to be very clear about what I’m sorry _for_. I’m sorry you found us like that and I’m sorry we weren’t as careful as we could have been. But I’m not apologizing for being attracted to my boyfriend. I’m not _apologizing_ for being gay, Dad.”  
  
His dad shakes his head. “Blaine, I know you can't help who you're attracted to; despite what you think, I _do_ know that. But I just think... I don't know...  don’t you think you’re a little young to be labeling yourself this way? I mean, for god's sake, Blaine, you were only _fourteen_ when you came out. Who the hell knows anything about themselves when they’re fourteen?”  
  
Blaine feels oddly hollow. “Well, I’ll be eighteen in November, Dad. And as awkward as last night was for both of us… you can’t possibly hold out hope that I'm straight after what you”-  
  
“Blaine, it's not about my holding out hope. I’m just saying that you don’t know what will happen to you later in life. Maybe...maybe you’ll meet someone..."  
  
A faint thrill of anger courses through Blaine. “Like, as in a _female_ someone? Are you seriously standing here and trying to tell me that I just haven’t met the right girl yet?”  
  
“Of course not. I’m just asking you to be open-minded. Even in my own life, Blaine, I’ve… heard of men who’ve fallen in love with other men, but then later they discover they’re perfectly capable of falling in love with women - ”  
  
“Well, then they’re not gay,” Blaine hisses in exasperation. “I’m not romantically _or_ sexually attracted to women, Dad. The person you’re describing isn’t a person who ‘grew out of it' or 'got over it' or whatever it is you’re thinking they did. That person is _bisexual_ , at least on some level.”  
  
His dad’s eyes widen. “That's - no. That’s not what I… Blaine, not everything has to have a label. Why is your generation so obsessed with labels _?”_  
  
Blaine shakes his head. “We’re not obsessed with them. We’re trying to make things better. Don’t you think it’s hard to fight for change if you don’t have some sort of … collective identity?”  
  
“This isn’t an identity you want, Blaine. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” The look in his dad’s eyes is halfway to _pleading_. “Life is so much more difficult for gay men, Blaine; the world is so much more dangerous. It's not a life any parent would choose for their child”-  
  
Blaine blinks back tears furiously. "You're acting like this is something that's up for _discussion_. Dangerous or not, this is an unchangeable part of who I am, Dad. And I’m sorry if it scares you... but just...  where do you get off telling _me_ how hard it is to be a gay male? Do you have any idea how insulting that is?”  
  
His dad's expression turns suddenly grim. “Son, I know that at this age, you _think_ you know everything. But I’m asking you to consider the possibility that I might know more than you about the way the world works.”  
  
An outraged exclamation spills from Blaine's mouth. “What – seriously, what _is_ this, Dad? Where is this coming from? Do you even _know_ any gay people aside from me?”  
  
His dad sticks his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and stares at the garage floor. “I… did, yes. In college, I had a friend. He… we were friends.”  
  
Blaine narrows his eyes disbelievingly. “Really. A _friend_ in college,” he echoes.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And where is this friend now?”  
  
His dad lifts his head up suddenly - and Blaine finds himself actually taking a step backward, putting distance between them. He has never seen an expression like that on _anyone’s_ face in his life.  
  
It is raw, unadulterated pain.  
  
His dad breathes out two words, voice shaky and rasping.  
  
“Southview Cemetery.”  
  
The bottom of Blaine’s stomach drops out as his dad shuts the lid of his tool-kit, opens the door from the garage to the house, and – for the second time in as many days – turns his back on his son.   
  
   
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It takes Blaine a minute or so to act. But he pulls it together remarkably quickly, all things considered. He can’t let the conversation end on that note; he just _can’t_. He has to find his dad – apologize – ask questions – _explain_ -  
  
He rushes out of the garage. “Dad? Dad”-  
  
“You just missed him,” says Lynn Anderson cheerfully, poking her head out of the kitchen. “I just heard his car pull out of the driveway. Did you need him for something?”  
  
“Yeah.” Blaine gestures toward the garage. “I need to apologize. We kind of… got into it.”  
  
“Oh, Blaine,” she sighs. She steps back into the kitchen and Blaine follows. His mother is a petite, attractive woman, and at the moment her dark-brown hair is twisted up into a messy bun. Blaine can tell she’s just come back from her morning run; she has on yoga pants, a t-shirt, and athletic shoes. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with the two of you,” she tells him.  
  
“It was my fault this time,” he says miserably. “I struck a nerve.”  
  
“A nerve?”  
  
Blaine hangs his head. “More like an artery, I think.”  
  
“You want to talk about it?”  
  
“No,” says Blaine emphatically. “I just... god, how is it that we’re so _different_ , Mom?”  
  
His mom laughs a little as she grabs her water bottle off the peninsula and heads over to the sink to wash it out.  
  
“What’s so funny?” he asks suspiciously.  
  
“Just the fact that you asked me that,” she says with a shrug. “I think most of the trouble between you stems from the fact that you’re _unbelievably_ alike. Can you really not see that, honey? I think _he_ does.”  
  
Blaine crinkles his face in confusion. “Dad and I? But… he’s always acted like I can’t measure up to his standards.”  
  
She throws him an annoyed look. “Blaine, you’re being ridiculous. That’s not true at all.”  
  
“But he has such high expectations!”  
  
“Well, of course he does. You’re talented and intelligent and _of course_ he expects great things from you. But he’s so proud of you, sweetheart. You should have heard how he was talking about you at his work party three weeks ago: Your grades, your speech and debate competitions, the Warblers winning Sectionals and placing at Regionals…”  
  
“Did he mention that my duet with my boyfriend helped us place at Regionals?”  
  
“ _Blaine_ ,” she says warningly.  
  
“Mom”-  
  
“Blaine, that’s not fair. First of all, I didn’t hear anyone at the party bragging about their teenagers’ significant others. And secondly… I wish things were different, but it’s a controversial issue for a lot of people, and your dad and I _both_ still face a learning curve. We grew up in a different time, sweetheart; in fact, we met during the height of the AIDS crisis. You can’t imagine what it was like."  
  
She sets the water bottle on the drying rack and starts unloading the dishwasher. “And it’s harder for your dad than for me; you know how conservative Grandpa and Grandma were. You’re asking him to go from being told something is wrong to seeing it as a point of pride in the matter of a few short years.”  
  
“But he should be able to do it,” insists Blaine stubbornly. “I’m his son.”  
  
His mother turns away from the dishwasher, steps into Blaine’s space, and places her hands on either side of his face.  
  
“It sounds to me,” she says pointedly, “like your father isn’t the only one with high expectations. And I know for a _fact,_ Blaine, that you’re not the only one who’s scared that they won't measure up.”  
  
She turns back to the dishwasher and hands Blaine a stack of clean plates that he wordlessly accepts. He puts them away in the cabinet, lost in thought as he cautiously tests the weight of his mother’s words.

 

 

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Blaine spends the next half-hour at his desk in his room. He’s trying to write the _Bass II_ part for the arrangement of “Viva la Vida” the Warblers will be learning this fall, but it’s not going well; he feels jittery and hopelessly unfocused. By the time he’s ruined four pages of staff paper, he heaves a sigh of frustration, throws his notebook onto the floor, stands up, and faceplants dramatically onto his bed.

The next few minutes are spent wrestling with his emotions; he vacillates between feeling abjectly sorry _(I’m such an insensitive idiot)_ and feeling a slight sense of indignation ( _Well, how on earth was I supposed to know?_ ).

And - now that he’s properly thinking about it - why _hadn’t_ Blaine known?

A high school friend of Blaine’s father had died in a car crash fifteen years ago, and his dad has shared countless stories and memories of him with Blaine. They’ve even gone and visited his gravestone a few times. What makes this friend so different? Is it because he was a gay friend? Had his dad been _ashamed_ of him somehow?

Of course, it’s _possible_ that he hadn’t been as close to this particular friend – but no, that can’t be right. He can’t block the memory of the look on his dad’s face, even though a part of him desperately wants to. He’d looked like…

Blaine can’t even put it into words. He’s never lost anyone close to him, but he _imagines_ that’s how he’d look if something ever happened to Kurt (his stomach twists painfully just at the idea of it) and he can’t quite reconcile the expression on his father’s face with this nameless, faceless gay friend who his father has never _once_ thought to mention.

Even now, he’d only brought him up under duress, in the context of explaining how difficult life is for gay males, something he’d claimed to know _more_ about than Blaine, which is laughable considering that -  

_Wait._

Blaine sits up suddenly, eyes flying wide open but not taking in anything.

_Wait._

His heart starts pounding rapidly.

_I’m imagining things. I’m tired… and I’m emotional… and I’m not thinking correctly._

But of course it’s too late. The thought has already embedded itself in his consciousness and he can’t _un_ -think it. And now his brain is fitting things together in earnest; identifying patterns, establishing new connections, and replaying snippets of conversations:

 

_“He… we were friends.”_

_“The world is so much more dangerous.”_

_“Even in my own life, I’ve known people…”_

_“Your father and I grew up in a different time…”_

_“…fallen in love with other men…”_

_“I know more than you about the way the world works.”_

_“…you two are unbelievably alike. Can you really not see that, honey? I think he does.”_

 

Blaine has to stand; there’s no outlet available for the nervous energy coursing through him and it’s _painful_ to keep still. He paces back and forth across the length of his bedroom, his brain still frantically whirring –

Could it be? Could his dad be… _gay?_

 _Not_ gay, Blaine reminds himself. He’s spent years watching his mom and dad interact and there’s no way his dad is faking that level of attraction. But he _could_ be bisexual; it’s a definite possibility. In fact, it would explain – _god_ , it would explain _so much…_

But what’s the story? The only thing Blaine knows _for sure_ is that his dad had cared for this man, on some level, and that the friend is now dead. _When_ had he died, though? Recently? Back in college? Who _was_ this man? Blaine ached to know more about him. Had he and his father had a _relationship_? Or had it been one-sided, with one of them pining for the other? Or -

Blaine would give anything to be able to talk to his dad about this, but there are a thousand reasons why he can’t -   not the least of which is that he could still be wrong. It is just a theory. There are a thousand-and- _one_ reasons he can’t talk to his mother. He certainly can’t share this with Wes or David or any of his Dalton friends - but he has to talk about this with _someone_ or he’ll go crazy.

A few seconds later, Blaine’s knocking his cell phone off the nightstand in his haste to grab it, in his haste to talk to Kurt. _Kurt._

He’s the only person who can _possibly_ understand the full import of this; the only person who will be just as shocked and blown away and inquisitive, and Blaine is bursting with the need to tell him the whole story, to let every half-formed theory in his brain spill out of his mouth.

But before he can share _any_ of this with him, he thinks, as his finger hovers above Kurt’s name in his phone contacts -

 - there’s something Blaine needs to know.  

 

_0000_

_0000_

_0000_

 

 

“Hello?”

The familiar, half-breathless chirrup in his ear is pretty much the only thing tethering Blaine to the planet. He thinks for a second that his cell phone is shaking, and it takes him _way_ too long to realize that it’s actually his hand.

“I didn’t think I’d hear from you till tonight,” says Kurt with an airy laugh. “Couldn’t stand to go another minute without hearing my dulcet tones?”

Basically yes.

Kurt’s voice turns questioning. “Blaine? I can hear you breathing. Or – well, I hear _someone_ breathing. If you’ve stolen Blaine’s phone, you should know that this is Blaine’s fiercely protective boyfriend and I’m actually a lot scarier in person than I sound”-

“Kurt,” interrupts Blaine. “It’s me.”

“I assumed as much,” Kurt informs him dryly.

“Kurt,” he says again, trying to keep his tone as even as he can. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” he replies breezily.

Given Kurt’s mood, Blaine will almost certainly receive a flippant answer, which is the last thing he wants. “This is serious.”

Kurt inhales sharply. “What is it? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“No, no,” Blaine assures him. “I just – I need a straight answer to this question, okay?”

Kurt lets out a low, shaky breath. “Oh, thank god. This is just you being melodramatic about something, right?”

Blaine’s not sure, but he doesn’t think so. “Kurt. I need to know... if you meant what you said in the coffee shop”-

“-when I said I loved you?” asks Kurt, sounding resigned but a little amused.

“No,” says Blaine shortly. “That time when you said you didn’t think bisexuality was real.”

There is a shocked silence on the other end of the line. Blaine is pressing the phone so tightly against him that he can feel the blood pounding in his ear.

“Blaine… what is this about?”

“I need to know,” he says. “I just need to know.”

He wishes he’d done this face-to-face. He wants to see the warmth in Kurt’s eyes; he wants to see the regret on his face and feel the reassuring weight of Kurt’s hand in his when Kurt tells him _oh, Blaine, of course I didn’t-_

“Yeah,” says Kurt, his voice tinged with suspicion. “I meant it. Why… why are you asking me that?”

He stares straight ahead at the wall, not saying anything. After a good twenty-second pause, he hears Kurt say nervously:

“Blaine, I’m not saying I necessarily feel the same way now. Or I guess… I know why I _shouldn’t_ feel the same way now. I know it’s a terrible thing to say - but you’re the only person I can say politically incorrect things to.” Kurt clears his throat uncomfortably. “The truth is that I don’t really know _what_ I think. But… if you’re asking me if I meant it at the time? Yes. Yes, I meant it.”

Blaine nods dumbly. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

“Can you please tell me why you’re asking me that?”

Blaine shifts his weight from one foot to the under, scratching idly at a mosquito bite on his left leg with his right shoe. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But no. Not right now.”

He feels Kurt’s dejected sigh right down to his toes. “God, I screwed that up, didn’t I? I’m sorry. It’s just – total honesty”-

“I know,” says Blaine. “You’re right. I know.”

“Something’s bothering you.”

Blaine thinks he might have overdone it with the mosquito bite. He heads to his bathroom to get a bandage from the medicine cabinet. “Yes.”

“But you won’t tell me what it is?”

“Kurt, listen,” he says, pressing the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he reaches for the rubbing alcohol. “I’ll text you tonight.”

“Blaine, I hate to leave things like this”-

“We’re fine,” he tells him. “Do you still want to come over tomorrow evening?”

“Of course, but”-

“Great,” says Blaine shortly. “I’ll see you then.” He winces at the burn of the alcohol on the open cut.

“Blaine, I love you.”

“Same here,” he says, as smoothly as he can under the circumstances.

Blaine disconnects the call and pockets the phone, leaning back against the far wall of the bathroom.

So it’s just him, then.

He really _is_ alone in this. 

 

  _0000_  
  
 _0000_  
  
0000   
   
  
  
Blaine spends the entire night _immersing_ himself in research; he scrolls feverishly through website after website, reading everything from academic journals to Wikipedia entries to personal blogs, trying to acquaint himself with the elusive creature known as the American bisexual male.  
  
He wishes there were some sort of symptom-checker _. Has the person in question exhibited any of the following behaviors?_ But then he thinks of the sorts of questions that would be on such a list and shudders. He doesn’t want to have to think about whether or not his dad has casually checked out another man’s ass, for example. (He hasn’t, to Blaine’s memory. But then he’s also never seen him check out a _woman’s_ ass. But then Blaine has never really thought to _look_ at his dad’s reactions to such stimuli…) Blaine shudders again.  
  
Undaunted, he keeps reading. He stays up absurdly late, sleeps for a grand total of five hours, and wakes up around ten-thirty with a killer head-ache. His mood doesn’t improve when his mom informs him that he needs to mow the lawn this morning. The Anderson’s yard is quite large and Blaine doesn’t finish until after lunch-time. He’d ignored his mother’s reminder to put on sunscreen – just to be contrary, basically – and by the time the lawn is done, Blaine is sweaty, grouchy, exhausted, and decently sun-burned.  
  
He feels slightly better after his shower, and he feels something approaching _normal_ after wolfing down two grilled-cheese sandwiches and a blueberry muffin. But then his dad very pointedly avoids him - walking out of whatever room Blaine walks into - and his mood once again rapidly deteriorates. Part of him is hoping that Kurt will make plans with someone else at the last minute and cancel on him. It’s a fool’s hope since Kurt has never canceled on him before - but Blaine just doesn’t want to see _anyone_ right now, not even Kurt. Maybe _especially_ Kurt.  
  
If he’s honest, what he really wants to do … is play his guitar. Yeah. That would be good; that would help.

He goes up to his bedroom and plays for a good half-hour. When Kurt arrives, he doesn’t greet him at the door. He lets his mom usher him in and send him upstairs and although Blaine knows he _could_ shut the door, he tells Kurt to keep it open. He’s not in the mood to do _anything_ they’d have to shut it for.

Kurt, however, surprises him. He seems to have been expecting this, and he seems perfectly content to wait Blaine out. He’d even brought _school_ - _work_ , and when Blaine keeps plucking away at his guitar, not even bothering to stand up and kiss Kurt hello, Kurt just shrugs coolly and kisses Blaine’s cheek.

Five minutes later, Kurt is lounging on his side in the center of Blaine’s double bed, palms curving around his Kindle, assiduously scrolling through the latest reading assignment for the online summer class that he’s taking for college credit: _English 205: Jack Kerouac and the Beat Generation._

Blaine is still sitting with his feet dangling off the edge of the bed, tunelessly strumming his acoustic guitar.

“Are you ready to talk about whatever’s bothering you?” Kurt asks, pointedly keeping his eyes on the screen in front of him.

Blaine slides his ring finger up to the fifth fret and lets the note ring out. “No.”

He can feel Kurt’s eyes on him now, two sharp, narrow points of focus. “Okay… well, do you maybe want to stop playing the same four horribly depressing harmonic minor chords over and over again?”

“They’re _melodic_ minor chords,” says Blaine shortly. “And no.”

Blaine isn’t sure how long he sits on the edge of the bed, letting his fingers traipse aimlessly across the steel wire of his guitar strings. It could be five minutes or half-an-hour later that Kurt lifts his head up and says:

 _“The only truth is music._ There’s your Kerouac quote for the day.”

“Thanks,” says Blaine absently. “I’ll have to remember that one.”

“Do you think that’s right?”

Blaine sighs heavily. “Do you?”

“I think so. I never feel more exposed than when I’m singing _.”_

“Mm,” says Blaine with a small, non-committal tilt of his head.

“And I think,” persists Kurt, “that when songs resonate with us, it’s because they tell us something true about ourselves. Either the melody or the arrangement or the lyrics”-

“Song lyrics mostly lie,” says Blaine irritably. “You think Ke$ha _really_ wants to party with us? You think Justin Bieber actually”-

“Well, of course she doesn’t want to party with _you_ , you grouch,” snipes Kurt. “But I happen to think I could show Ke$ha a fabulous time.”

Blaine sets the guitar down gently on the blue carpet and angles himself toward Kurt. “You know, the first thing I ever sang to you was probably the biggest lie I’ve ever told.”

Kurt arches an eyebrow. “So you _don’t_ think I’m pretty without any make-up on?”

He laughs shortly. “We skipped that verse.”

“Did you? I’m afraid the subtleties of the lyrics were a little lost on me at the time. Pray tell, what _was_ this big musical lie?”

Blaine takes a deep breath and sings softly, almost under his breath. “... _before you met me, I was all right, but”-_

He feels oddly sad all of a sudden, without really knowing why. He looks down at the bedspread - because he is seventeen years old and these types of things are hard enough to say.

“I barely remember who I was before I met you, Kurt,” he says as steadily as he can. “But I know I wasn’t all right.”

Kurt slides his hand along the bedspread and laces his fingers through Blaine’s. When Blaine meets his eyes, Kurt’s expression is a little shy, a little embarrassed – like he’s flattered, but he doesn’t have the first clue what to say in response. It strikes Blaine at that moment that Kurt is only seventeen, too, and that he’s nowhere _close_ to having all the answers. He’s right about some things and, well, he’s wrong about many others - and being reminded of that right now is strangely heartening.

“I should… finish reading my chapter,” says Kurt. “We have an essay due soon.”

“What’s it about?” asks Blaine.

Kurt looks up at Blaine through lowered lashes. “It’s a biography about this writer, Thomas Wolfe. He was about twenty years too old to be part of the Beatnik era, but he was one of Kerouac’s biggest literary influences.”

“What was he like?”

Kurt shrugs as he drops his eyes to the screen. “Talented. Temperamental. Certain of his own supreme genius and equally convinced he was a chronic failure. Your typical writer, really.”

Blaine grins. “So what kinds of things did he write about?”

Kurt sighs restlessly, scrolls a few pages ahead, and reads aloud to Blaine: “Here’s an excerpt _:_ ‘The modern picture of the artist began to form: The poor, but free spirit, plebeian but aspiring only to be classless, to cut himself forever free… to cross the line wherever they drew it, to look at the world in a way they couldn't see, to be high, live low, stay young forever - in short, to be the bohemian.’”

“Hmm…” says Blaine. “Interesting.”

His boyfriend laughs. “Liar.”

With a fond smile on his face, Kurt scoots back until he’s sitting against the headboard. He crosses his legs, Indian-style, and Blaine curls up sideways on the bed, resting his head on Kurt’s lap.

“So what happened to him?” he murmurs, his breath warm against Kurt’s knee.

“He died in his thirties,” says Kurt, threading his fingers through Blaine’s curls. “Some kind of tuberculosis. There’s actually an excerpt in here of the last letter he wrote. It was to his publisher, this guy named Maxwell Perkins, with whom he had a notably… _tempestuous_ relationship.”

“You want to read it to me?”

Kurt clears his throat and begins reading, enunciating the words carefully. “I shall _always_ think of you and feel about you the way it was that Fourth of July day three years ago when you met me at the boat, and we went out on the cafe on the river and had a drink and later went on top of the tall building, and all the strangeness and the glory and the power of life and of the city was below."

Blaine picks at a loose thread on Kurt’s jeans. Kurt shoots him an admonishing look and bats his hand away.

“It’s kind of sad,” Blaine offers, “that he had all that and then he just… didn’t anymore.”

“I guess,” says Kurt. “Want me to keep going?”

Blaine does.

It’s only six-fifteen, but he’s _so_ drained that he ends up closing his eyes and drifting asleep as Kurt’s gentle, lilting voice spins dark tales about a dead writer.

He sleeps for nearly two hours.

Blaine never knows this, but when Kurt finishes the chapter, he spends the next hour stroking Blaine’s hair gently, pressing soft kisses to his forehead, and singing low, sweet songs meant to keep bad dreams at bay.

Blaine never knows this, either, but his mother pokes her head in the room to see if either of them wants dinner. Far from seeming _embarrassed_ at having his boyfriend’s mother find them like this - Blaine asleep with his head on Kurt’s lap - Kurt places a finger commandingly over his lips, asking her without words to stay quiet. _She_ actually feels a little embarrassed as she leaves to head downstairs, although she’s not sure why.

Kurt’s leg falls painfully asleep but he stays in place, stubborn and unmoving.

He wouldn’t disturb Blaine for the world.

 


	3. Part Three

 

When Blaine blinks himself awake, the first thing he sees is a pair of ocean-colored eyes staring down at him.

A slow, sleepy smile spreads across Blaine’s face. “Hi,” he whispers.  
  
“Hi,” echoes Kurt softly. “Sleep well?”  
  
“Mm-hmm.” Blaine yawns and then lifts his head up slightly, trying to crane his neck and look at his alarm clock. “How long was I out?”  
  
“It’s about eight now,” Kurt tells him, “and you nodded off some time before six-thirty. Are you hungry? Your mom made food for us and I told her we’d heat it up when you finished napping.”  
  
Blaine sits up slowly. Kurt winces and rubs at his right leg, shaking it out a little. “You must be starving,” says Blaine. “You could have gone downstairs and eaten, you know.”  
  
Kurt rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Blaine. Me, your mom, and your dad sitting down together for dinner while you’re sleeping upstairs. So very _not_ -awkward.”  
  
Blaine glances sidelong at him and Kurt says, a little more gently, “…and anyway, I didn’t want to wake you. You looked exhausted. I know you don’t want to talk about what’s upsetting you, but is it too much to ask that you _not_ beat yourself up over it?”  
  
He nods. “I’m not. I mean - I won’t.”  
  
“Good,” says Kurt primly. He stands up and extends a hand to help Blaine off the bed. “Shall we?”  
  
Blaine takes his hand. “We shall.” 

 

_0000_

_0000_

_0000_  

  
  
  
They head downstairs to the kitchen and heat up the lasagna. Kurt eats a decent amount of the left-over salad, and he even manages to cajole Blaine into eating a few bites. Blaine feels ten times better after having slept, and he’s content now to sit back and let Kurt chatter animatedly to him over their late dinner.  
  
Kurt regales him with tales of Finn and Rachel’s latest relationship drama (“The boy was _openly weeping_ on my shoulder, Blaine. It wasn’t pretty.”), conveys his suspicions about Mercedes (“I think she’s hiding something. You only check your phone for texts _that_ often if you’re in a relationship. Or if someone’s in the hospital.”), and fills him in on the progress of _Pip, Pip, Hooray!_ (“It’s going about as well as your Six Flags audition went. Although at least _I_ haven’t broken any furniture mid-performance.”)  
  
When they finish eating, Blaine clears the table and Kurt loads the dishwasher. Kurt picks up the box of dishwasher tablets and shakes it lightly in Blaine’s direction. “Tell your parents that if they insist on buying this brand, they should combine it with an automatic rinse aid. Although if you don’t have _Finn_ living in your house, it’s probably less of an issue. I was just telling Dad the other day that if Finn spent half as much time…”  
  
Blaine can barely put words to what he’s feeling. He’s just loving _everything_ he’s seeing right now.  
  
He loves the way Kurt’s eyes light up when he talks about his family; he loves that even when Kurt uses that condescending _oh-these-silly-people_ tone of voice, there’s always an intimacy to it, as though surely _Blaine_ also understands just how silly they’re being (even if Blaine doesn’t); he loves that Kurt has strong opinions about everything under the sun, even brands of dishwashing detergent; he loves – well - he just _really, really loves Kurt_ when it comes down to it.  
  
Kurt shuts the door to the dishwasher and starts it on the normal wash cycle. “Are you all right?” he asks, regarding Blaine curiously with his head cocked to one side.  
  
“I’m fine,” says Blaine. “I was … thinking about us, actually. Eating dinner with you and clearing it away together – it’s kind of domestic and…” he gestures to the kitchen and dining room, feeling like he’s not making much sense. “Being with you and looking around here makes me think of when we’ll have our own place, and it makes me wonder what our lives will be like…” Blaine trails off.  
  
Kurt is looking at Blaine with increasing levels of alarm and _oh god -_ he’s just come on way too strong, hasn’t he? They’ve only been dating for four-and-a-half _months_. It’s one thing to dream about these things, but it’s entirely another to _voice_ them like this; it’s too much, too soon, and now Kurt probably thinks he’s –  
  
“Blaine Anderson,” says Kurt, placing his hands sternly on his own hips, “if looking around here makes you think of what our place will be like, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. This decorating scheme …” Kurt looks consideringly around the room and sighs heavily. “Well, I’m sure pineapple-patterned wallpaper, beadboard wainscoting, and antique maple-hutches were all the rage in 1990- _whatever_ , but _I_ have been designing our future kitchen since you asked me to see _Rent_ with you: Marble countertops, glass cabinetry with black trim, Asian-style wall sconces and a few hanging lamps for light, maybe a modern curio cabinet in… what do you think - the far back corner? Am I right?”  
  
Blaine bites the insides of his cheeks to keep from grinning. He tries to nod as seriously and knowledgeably as he can throughout Kurt’s impassioned soliloquy on the merits of bamboo floorboards, but it’s hard because he just – god, he _really, really loves Kurt_.   
   
  
  
 _0000_  
  
 _0000_  
  
 _0000_    
   
  
  
“So what did you and Mercedes do last night?” asks Blaine, holding his bedroom door open for Kurt.  
  
“We helped Rachel narrow down her audition repertoire for Juilliard,” Kurt replies breezily, crossing the room to sit on Blaine’s bed. “Or, to be more accurate, _Rachel_ picked out her song selections, asked Mercedes and I for our opinions, and then discarded them like stray chewing gum wrappers.”“Ouch,” says Blaine.  
  
“Oh, no, not really,” says Kurt with a wave of his hand. “It’s Rachel. I’d expect nothing less.”  
  
“What did she end up choosing?”  
  
“Well, she wants to lead off with ‘As Long as he Needs Me’ from _Oliver_ , which is a tragic choice of song for several reasons.”  
  
“Do tell,” says Blaine, amused.  
  
“First of all,” says Kurt, pursing his lips in irritation, “it’s just a tragic song in general, which will inevitably cause Rachel to do her infamous singing-crying-hybrid- _thing_ that is in no way flattering. Secondly, she’s a mezzo and that song is _clearly_ meant for a soprano. Thirdly, while it’s no surprise to me that Rachel wants to musically express her _complete_ and utter emotional dependence on men… somehow I don’t think it’s the best idea.”  
  
Kurt shrugs. “But she won’t listen to me or Mercedes. Rachel sounds – well, actually, I can show you because she uploaded one of the _many_ versions we heard last night onto her Myspace page,” says Kurt, easing himself off the bed and walking over to the laptop on Blaine’s desk. “Do you have the sheet music for it? If you play along with it on the keyboard, you’ll hear how sharp she sounds in comparison, especially on the bridge.”  
  
“I think I do have it,” admits Blaine. “Just give me a minute to find it.”  
  
Blaine removes _The Best of Broadway: 1950-1969_ and _Broadway Songs of Past and Present_ from their respective positions on the third shelf of his bookcase, and he’s skimming through the index of the first contender when he hears the unmistakable sound of Kurt’s footsteps.  
  
“Kurt?” he asks, glancing up suddenly.  
  
Kurt’s back is already to him; he’s making a beeline for Blaine’s door. “Restroom,” he says, voice pitched slightly higher than normal.  
  
Blaine frowns in concern. “Kurt, are you - ?”  
  
But Kurt has already rounded the corner of the doorway. Blaine considers going after him – it seems strange that he’d left so _abruptly_ – but decides against it. He finds the song in question, brings the piano book over to his keyboard, sets it on his music stand, and heads over to his desk. The laptop is open to his default homepage, which is the Bing search engine. The letters “Rach,” are typed into the search engine box, but Blaine’s eyes are quickly drawn toward the column on the left side of the screen, as Kurt’s eyes must have been.  
  
  
  
 **Recent Search History**      
  
  
And underneath it:  
  
  
  
 _bisexuality_  
  
 _male bisexuality_  
  
 _coming to terms with being bisexual_  
  
 _bisexual self-acceptance_  
  
 _resources for people questioning their sexuality_  
  
 _resources for bisexual men_    
   
  
  
Blaine stands there frozen, his right hand pressed to his mouth, for several seconds. Then –  
  
“Anderson, you _idiot!”_ he hisses, running for the door. The upstairs hall bathroom is only three doors down from him and he can see the light spilling out from beneath the door. He knocks loudly.  “Kurt, it’s me. Listen, I know what that looked like, but - ”  
  
“I’ll be out in a minute,” comes Kurt’s voice, sounding falsely bright. “Just… go wait in your room for me, okay?”  
  
“Kurt, come on, let me explain. ”  
  
“Blaine, _no_ , just…” This time there’s a perceptible quaver in his voice. “C-can we please do this in your room and not in the hallway? I just… need a minute to think.”  
  
He hears Kurt inhale sharply, a wet, half-hiccupping breath that’s nearly a sob. Kurt’s _crying_. Blaine buries his face in his hands. _Fuck. This was **not** supposed to happen…_    
  
He walks back to his room on autopilot and sits on the edge of his bed, his stomach twisting itself into knots. Why hadn’t he just told Kurt everything? Even if they’d fought, it would have been better than _this_. He hears the bathroom door open and Blaine panics for a second; Kurt could easily choose to bypass his bedroom, walk down the staircase, and head out the front door.  
  
Blaine's fear subsides slightly when Kurt steps into the doorway a few seconds later. Kurt's face is whiter than normal and his eyes are noticeably red-rimmed, but everything from the way he’s standing to the set of his jaw tells Blaine that Kurt is resolved – he’s _determined_ – to do whatever it is he’s about to do.  
  
“Kurt,” says Blaine quickly. “Listen to me. Don’t - ”  
  
“Just let me get this out,” says Kurt forcefully. “I _have_ to get this out, Blaine. It’s hard enough for me to say, and I need you to just… sit and listen. Can you listen?”  
  
“Y-yes, but…”  
  
“Good. Okay. So… here’s the thing,” says Kurt. Blaine can hear Kurt fighting to keep his voice steady, and he can tell that it’s a losing battle.  
  
“This?” says Kurt, pointing to the computer monitor. “This is _my_ problem. It’s my issue, my… _hang_ - _up_ , my… whatever you want to call it. I know it’s stupid, I know it’s juvenile and offensive, and honestly, it’s just plain shitty of me to think the way I do. It’s – it’s something I need to get over and I _will_ get over it, starting now.”  
  
Kurt takes a deep, shuddering breath and his determined expression fades into something softer, more vulnerable. “I can’t believe I’ve done it again,” he says, almost to himself. “I made myself so unapproachable that you had to deal with this on your own. I’m sorry I didn’t see it, but you just seemed so _sure_ that you were gay, Blaine. You seemed sure and we seemed happy together, so even when you called me, it never occurred to me that you were having these…” Kurt closes his eyes. “…doubts or… questions. And I can’t be mad at you for not telling me, because clearly you _tried_ yesterday and I said… well, you know what I said to you.”  
  
“Kurt,” says Blaine, appalled. “I’m not - ”  
  
“Blaine, wait, please, I’m almost done. I just need to explain – well, I need to make sure you _know_ – that whether you’re gay or bi, I love you and I want to be with you. I can’t say that it doesn’t matter to me, because for some inexplicable reason it _does_ matter… but I won’t let it affect us, I promise. And if you think you need a break from me, either because you’re pissed at me or because you need to…” Kurt looks vaguely ill. “…figure some things out…”  
  
“No - god, _no_ ,” gasps Blaine in astonishment. “Kurt - ”  
  
“Oh,” says Kurt faintly, the surprise and relief in his voice nearly palpable. “Well, that’s… good. That’s good.”  
  
Blaine had spent nearly the whole course of that speech trying to interrupt Kurt, but now that Kurt has stopped talking, he finds himself at a loss for what to say. On the one hand, it’s gratifying to hear that Kurt loves him no matter what. On the other hand, Blaine has no clue how to respond without the whole story spilling out. Is that something he can do? Will Kurt understand?  
  
He glances up at Kurt, who is chewing on his lower lip and looking expectantly at Blaine.  
  
Wordlessly, Blaine pats the empty space next to him on the bed and Kurt crosses the room and sits down  next to Blaine.  
  
“Are we okay?” asks Kurt nervously, his hands fidgeting in his lap.  
  
“Yes. But there’s something I need to tell you,” says Blaine firmly. “And I need you to stop trying to stay one step ahead of me, Kurt. In won’t work in this case, and it’s going to make things harder for both of us. So… can it be your turn now to just sit and listen?”  
  
Kurt nods, looking a little chastened.  
  
“Okay then,” says Blaine, letting his fingers brush lightly against Kurt’s. “So let me tell you what I know. And then I’ll tell you what I _think_ , based on what I know.”  
  
Kurt curls his fingers around Blaine’s hand, until their palms are tightly clasped.  
  
“All right,” he says softly. “I’m listening.”   
  
  
   
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 _0000_    
  

 

It doesn’t take long – there isn’t much to tell, really.

But judging from the spellbound expression on Kurt's face, his theory is definitely plausible to an outsider.  
  
“ _Blaine_ ,” whispers Kurt in a hushed, awed tone. “That is just… I mean... You really think - ?”  
  
“I really think.”  
  
“But that would mean… all those times you thought he was trying to turn you straight - ”  
  
“This is just a theory,” cautions Blaine, “but I _think_ he thought I’d be able to have the same life he has now. I don’t know that he’s ever thought about the nature of one sexual orientation versus another – in fact, if I had to guess, I’d say he’s spent as little time as possible thinking about it.”  
  
“He’s not _stupid_ , Blaine, I’m sure he knows the difference between gay and bi.”  
  
Blaine looks down at their joined hands. “I know some very smart people who still have a hard time with it.”  
  
Kurt looks stricken. “Blaine, I never meant - ”  
  
“No, Kurt. Look… maybe this is me being a jerk; I don’t know. But I spent last night doing a lot of research and I feel like - basically, I need for you to understand just how wrong you are, or at least how wrong you were. Bisexuality is _real_ , Kurt.”  
  
“I know that. I _do_. But Blaine, will you at least admit to me that a lot of gay guys pretend to be bisexual in order to - ?”  
  
“No."  
  
Kurt gapes at him. “Yes, they do.”  
  
Blaine shakes his head. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. Honestly, I have no idea where you even came up with that. If you'd said, 'a lot of gay guys pretend to be _straight_ ,' I'd agree with you. But bi? What high schooler thinks coming out as bisexual will be _easier_ than coming out as gay? Who thinks 'Oh, well, I'm not _quite_ ready for the amount of bullying I'd get if I came out as gay, so I'll just say I'm bisexual and maybe they'll only beat me up _half_ as much.' Does that sound remotely plausible to you?"  
  
Kurt still looks unconvinced. "I can see your point, but...it's also true that there don't seem to be very many bisexual men out there as compared to gay men. You never seem to hear about them - "  
  
"No, but why would you?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"I said, why _would_ you? If you're equally attracted to women and men - and especially if you tend to be _more_ attracted to women - then what's your incentive for coming out?"  
   
Kurt looks outraged. " _Incentive?_ What about increasing visibility? Showing solidarity with the gay community?"  
  
"Right," says Blaine smoothly. "Because as you know, the gay community displays no prejudice or distrust toward bisexuals. We're all very accepting."  
  
Kurt tries to hide his slight wince but Blaine catches it out of the corner of his eye.  
   
Blaine tightens his grip on Kurt's hand. "I'm not trying to make you feel badly, Kurt, I swear. But... prejudice _is_ just ignorance, you know, and that works both ways."  
   
He looks over at Kurt, who appears to be weighing Blaine's words carefully. After a short pause, he stares down at the floor and says, "I can’t help how I feel, Blaine. What… what do you want me to say?”  
  
“Kurt,” says Blaine wearily, “right now, I just want you to admit that there’s a lot you don’t know about this issue and that you could stand to learn a little more about it before you go making sweeping pronouncements.”  
  
Kurt glares at him. “Fine. Ready? Blaine Warbler: Despite popular opinion, your stunningly handsome, brilliantly talented, and impeccably dressed boyfriend doesn’t necessarily know _everything_. Happy?”  
  
Blaine rolls his eyes. “Ecstatic.”  
  
"And speaking of knowing things," says Kurt, taking a deep breath, "let's do this."  
  
Blaine arches an eyebrow. "Let's do... what, exactly?"  
  
"Let's find out who our mystery guy is. Come on, aren't you curious? I'm dying to know."  
  
He shakes his head. "I can't ask my dad about this. Can you imagine how he'd react if he knew what we - ?"  
  
"Well, obviously, you can't _ask_ him. We need to figure it ourselves," he says, standing up and walking over to... Blaine's laptop.  
  
"Oh,” says Blaine dumbly as Kurt's thought process clicks into place. " _Oh_.  I guess I never thought... I mean, I don't know how comfortable I am prying into - "  
  
Kurt waves a hand dismissively. "It's not prying. We're not hacking into government files, Blaine, we're just poking around a little. Anything we'll find on here is public knowledge." He sits down on the bed again, laptop resting on his crossed legs. "So what do we know?"  
  
Blaine shrugs. "Not much. I just know my dad knew him in college, he was gay, and now he's dead."  
  
"What year did your dad graduate?"  
  
Blaine wracks his brain for the answer. "Uh... 1985, I think?"  
  
"And where did he go?"  
  
"OSU."  
  
"Main campus?"  
  
"Uh... I assume so?"  
  
"What did he major in?"  
  
Blaine shrugs. "Something... business-related? Probably?"  
  
Kurt side-eyes him. "Well, aren't you just a font of information."  
  
"It's not my fault," Blaine protests. "He never talks about his college days."  
  
"I guess maybe now we know why," says Kurt quietly.  
  
Blaine sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, maybe."  
  
"Well, did he say _when_ he died?"  
  
"I'm telling you, he didn't say anything at all about him. He just said he was gay. That's it. And then I asked where he was and my dad said - _oh_ \- " says Blaine, eyes widening in realization. "He said... Southview Cemetery. He said he was in Southview Cemetery."  
  
"Where's that?"  
  
Blaine shakes his head. "I've never heard of it."  
  
Kurt's fingers fly quickly over the keyboard. "One word or two?"  
  
Blaine huffs in annoyance. "He didn't spell it for me, Kurt."  
  
"Sorry, dumb question. You're sure he said Southview, though?"  
  
"I'm not sure of anything. But I think that's what I heard."  
  
Kurt stares intently at the screen. "Okay, well, according to GoogleMaps, there are eight in the U.S. And _four_ of them are in Georgia for whatever reason - in Augusta, Moreland, Thomaston, and Atlanta. Sound familiar?"  
  
"No. And my dad told me once that the farthest south he's been is Virginia - although he could have been lying, I guess."  
  
"He also hasn't necessarily _been_ to this cemetery," points out Kurt.  
  
"I guess that's true," says Blaine slowly, "but it seems like if he cared enough to remember the specific name, he's probably been to the grave."  
  
"Well, we'll go with that assumption for now. So we'll knock the Georgia cemeteries off the list, and we'll knock off the one in Kinston, North Carolina. That leaves three."  
  
"What are they?"  
  
"One in..." Kurt scrolls up. "Randolph, Vermont."  
  
"Doesn't sound familiar," says Blaine. "And I have no clue if my dad's been to Vermont or not."  
  
"There's also one in North Adams, Massachusetts."  
  
Blaine frowns. "Well, I know he's been to Boston on business meetings, but other than that..."  
  
"This is nowhere near Boston. It's the complete opposite side of the state, way up near the Vermont and New York borders. Looks like a tiny little town."  
  
"Probably not, then."  
  
"Okay," says Kurt. "That leaves us with one more, and it's in..." He inhales dramatically. "Sullivan, Ohio."  
  
"Ohio?" asks Blaine breathlessly, his heart beating a little faster.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Where's Sullivan?"  
  
Kurt zooms in on it. "Up near Akron. About a 90-minute drive from here. What do you think - road trip?"  
  
Blaine breathes out shakily. "Oh, god. I don't know. I mean, we don't even know what we're looking for, do we? A man who was probably born about the same time as my dad - although we're not even sure about that - and died at some point past childhood? We don't even know that he's buried there, although it _does_ seem likely."  
  
Kurt nods. "You're right, we have to narrow it down. I think you might need to do some reconnaissance."  
  
Blaine gapes at him. "Like... how do you mean?"  
  
"Well, there’s a phenomenon I’m aware of, but am only _just_ now starting to experience for myself since Carole’s moved in. What does every father in the world say when there are questions he doesn't want to answer?"   
  
"I have no idea," he admits.  
  
"Four words, Blaine," Kurt informs him. "Go. Ask. Your. Mother."  
  
  
 _0000_  
  
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 _0000_

 

He hopes it’s not _too_ much of a gender-normative cliché – the fact that long discussions with his mother tend to take place in the kitchen. It’s always been this way; something about the room just lends itself to unfettered conversation.  
  
The Anderson kitchen is bright and cheery, and there’s always _something_ to keep Blaine’s restless hands occupied – dishes to be washed, silverware to be put away, vegetables that need to be peeled or sliced, or sauces that can be stirred. The setting also gives Blaine and his mother the comfort of being in close proximity without the pressure of having to maintain eye contact.  
  
Sometimes they don’t talk at all. One of them will turn on the radio and they’ll work separately while singing or bopping lightly to the music, each of them focused on their separate tasks but always calmly aware of the other’s presence. And when they _do_ talk, the words seem to flow more freely; Blaine has found over the years that some things are just _easier_ to ask or confess while staring down into the depths of a mixing bowl – or while shelling peas or squeezing lemons or spicing tomato sauce. Blaine’s not a particularly gifted or innovative chef, but he can follow his mom’s directions easily enough; in fact, he’d go so far as to say she brings out the best in him.  
  
It’s for this reason that he waits to talk to her until she’s started preparing dinner the next evening.  
  
She’s at the sink, rinsing vegetables, as he enters.  
  
“Hey, mom,” he says, his insides already twisting with guilt. _I’m not doing anything wrong_ , he tells himself stubbornly. _These are perfectly valid, innocuous questions and she can choose to answer them or not._  
  
“Hey yourself,” she says brightly. “Did you have a good day, sweetheart?”  
  
“Yes.” He clears his throat. “Mom, can I… ask you a question?”  
  
She doesn’t look up. “Sure. What’s on your mind?”  
  
“I was actually wondering if I could ask you about… how you and dad met? I mean, I sort of vaguely know, but…”  
  
His mom turns around. “Dad and I?”  
  
Blaine nods. “Mm-hmm.”  
  
She narrows her eyes at him. “Blaine, please tell me this isn’t a summer assignment for school where you’re supposed to interview an old person about what life was like when they were young. That will _not_ endear you to me.”  
  
He laughs shortly. “No. It’s just for the sake of my curiosity, I swear.” He really _can_ swear to that; it’s completely true.  
  
She continues to regard him curiously. “And just how many re-runs of _How I Met Your Mother_ have you watched so far this summer?”  
  
Blaine laughs again. “A fair amount.”  
  
She smiles. “Well, I’ll advise you right now that our story isn’t nearly as involved or convoluted. But if you’re sure you want to hear it…”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“All right. Well… stop me if there’s something specific you want to know. We met in the spring of 1987 and it was through a mutual friend, Meg Allard. She worked with your dad and she knew me through school. Meg introduced the two of us at a party, we talked and hit it off, and he asked me out to dinner.”  
  
“And how old were you when you met?”  
  
She frowns in concentration. “I know your father was twenty-four. And I was… was I twenty-one? No – oh, you know, now that I’m thinking about it, I had _just_ turned twenty-two a few days before our first date. I remember because at my family party, all my aunts and uncles kept asking me if I was seeing anyone and I kept saying, ‘Well, no, but I _do_ have a date this Friday.’”  
  
“And the date went well?”                                 
          
She smiles reflectively. “You know, it did, or at least I thought so. But then it took him five days to call again.” She shakes her head. “God, that was a nerve-wracking time. I can remember having lunch with my girlfriends and _agonizing_ with them over why he hadn’t called yet.”  
  
“But he called five days later?” Blaine prods.  
  
“Yes, and we went to the movies that weekend and saw _Raising Arizona._ After that date, he started calling and asking me out regularly; by that point I _suspected_ he was seriously interested in me, but I wasn’t sure.”  
  
“How did you find out he _was_ interested?” asks Blaine.  
  
“Well… we’d been dating for a month or so, but we hadn’t been dating exclusively. But then your father went back to Illinois to Grandma and Grandpa’s house for some sort of family reunion weekend.  I hadn’t been expecting him to call while he was away, but he did. He called me long-distance – which I know means nothing to you, but back then it was very flattering - from his parents’ house, just to say hello and tell me that he missed me.”  
  
“Uh-huh?” says Blaine, trying not to sound too impatient.  
  
“And I heard him tell your Uncle James, who was talking loudly in the background, to be more quiet because he was on the phone with his _girlfriend_. It was the first time he’d said the word and I was… well, you can imagine. I was beyond thrilled.”  
  
Blaine takes in that information, feeling somewhat surprised by what he’s just heard.  
  
He knows intellectually that his mother and father hadn’t just met and gotten married right away. But he’d assumed that they must have _known_ \- that they’d looked at one another, seen which way the wind was blowing, and started planning their lives accordingly.  
  
But obviously they hadn’t always known. There had been a time before they were married, engaged, or even seriously committed to one another. They’d been _boyfriend-and-girlfriend_ which, when he thinks about the nature and the intensity of his relationship with Kurt, is just… a shockingly _intimate_ notion.  
  
And even those titles hadn’t been automatically granted; there had been a time and place in which his parents hadn’t yet worked out _what_ they were to one another. Blaine can relate; it hadn’t been long ago that every flutter of Kurt’s eyelashes, every tilt of his head, every sigh, and every laugh had burned the same question across Blaine’s mind: _Should-we-or-shouldn’t-we?_  
  
But now he’s gotten off-track.  
  
“So,” he says as casually as he can, “when you first met dad, where were you living? With roommates? Alone?”  
  
“I was in my senior year of college then. I lived with my friend Kitty in an off-campus apartment and Dad lived in a _very_ small condo by himself. Why?”  
  
“Oh,” says Blaine, caught off-guard. “No reason. Dad just… I mean, I’ve heard you mention Kitty before, but Dad never seems to talk about his college friends. I was curious.”  
  
His mother frowns thoughtfully. “He _is_ exceptionally private about that time in his life, and since he’d already graduated by the time I met him, I’m afraid I can’t help you much. I know he studied very hard and didn’t socialize as much as most students. But he stuck it out, so I assume he liked OSU better than that other place.”  
  
Blaine looks up at her in surprise. “Other place?”  
  
“Yes, he transferred from another school. Halfway through his sophomore year, I think.”  
  
“Wh – are you serious?”  
  
“I’m telling you, Blaine, you have a lot more in common with your father than you think,” she tells him fondly. “I have no idea what happened to him there. I know he had a very rough time of it – for some reason I think it was socially rather than academically. He refuses to talk about it; I’ve only broached the subject a handful of times, and he's always been very defensive.”  
  
“What was the school he transferred from?” asks Blaine, trying not to sound too eager.  
  
She sighs. “Oh god, what _was_ the school? It was a very small college; I know I’d never heard of it before. The only reason I’d know the name is because we occasionally get alumni letters from them begging for donations. I swear, Blaine, those people can track you down _anywhere_.”  
  
“Do we have any now?”  
  
“I certainly don’t save them and I highly doubt your father does. God, I can _see_ the envelope. What was it called?”  
  
She looks lost in thought and Blaine drums his fingers nervously on the peninsula countertop.  
  
“MCLA,” she says finally. “I can’t remember what it stands for, but I can picture the insignia on the envelope. It’s MCLA.”  
  
Blaine can barely suppress his sigh of relief. Finally, they’re getting _somewhere_.  
  
“Thanks, Mom,” he says. “Listen, you don’t mind if Kurt comes over this evening, do you?”  
  
“Not at all.”  
  
“Great. You’re the best,” he says, jumping out of his seat to kiss his mother on the cheek.  
  
Feeling both elated and anticipatory, he exits the kitchen and texts Kurt _. Break-thru_ , he says. _Can you come over?_  
  
Blaine bounces on the balls of his feet waiting for Kurt’s reply. Fifteen seconds later, his phone beeps: _Leaving ASAP. See you soon._  
  
He pockets his phone and heads out the front door. A quick walk might do him some good right about now.  
  


  
  



	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I obviously made a few predictions about what might happen in the world (having written this in 2011). About one of them in particular, I can honestly state that I have *never* been so happy to be wrong.

 

 

“Okay,” says Kurt, letting his fingers hover over the keyboard in a decidedly theatrical manner. “What do we know?”

“MCLA,” says Blaine. “My mom doesn’t remember what it stands for, but that’s where he went to college before he transferred to OSU.”

“I’m on it,” says Kurt confidently. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but _why_ am I on it? I can’t believe you were able to contain your curiosity long enough to wait for me.”  
  
Blaine gives him the most charming grin he can muster. "What if I told you that watching you sleuth around for clues on the internet is one of _the_ cutest things I’ve ever seen?”  
  
Kurt glares at him.  
  
“Sorry. It’s true, though.”  
  
“Well,” sniffs Kurt. “Lucky for you, I’m choosing to take that as a compliment. Moving on,” he says, dropping his eyes back to the screen. “MCLA, MCLA… okay, we’ve got the Men’s Collegiate Lacrosse Association…”  
  
“Doubt it,” says Blaine.  
  
“The… Mural Conservancy of Los Angeles? I don’t suppose he spent his college years indexing and restoring all the public murals in L.A?”  
  
Blaine raises an eyebrow. “If he did, I don't think I'm ready to know about it.”  
  
“And… oh, here we go. Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts.”  
  
Blaine sits up straighter, his pulse picking up speed. “Is… that it? Is it a small college, like my mom said?”  
  
"Well, it’s not that small, but it…” Kurt trails off.  
  
"What?”  
  
“But it was quite small in the 80s. And it had a different name then, too.”  
  
“What was it called?”  
  
Kurt looks at Blaine meaningfully. “North Adams State College.”  
  
"Oh my god,” whispers Blaine. “North Adams? As in…”  
  
"Yes.”  
  
"And Southview Cemetery - ”  
  
"- is practically on campus,” finishes Kurt. “It’s a quarter mile down the road from the admissions office.”  
  
Blaine closes his eyes, feeling the cool, quiet rush of air from his ceiling fan pass over his face. _This is it._ It’s all coming together. Kurt’s discovery has made this real, in a way that it hadn’t been before. It's not that he'd thought his dad was lying - and it's not that Blaine had thought he'd misinterpreted anything - but somehow knowing the _specific_ location of where this man's body is decaying, under layers of hardened earth, is unsettling.  
  
And knowing that it's so close to campus - knowing that this man must have walked past this cemetery time and time again, maybe even with Blaine’s father - and that he couldn't _possibly_ have known that in the not-too-distant future his final resting place would be mere feet from where he was standing -  
  
"Blaine?" asks Kurt gently, pulling him from his morbid musings.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"There's a directory for the cemetery on Find A Grave. It has a listing of all the, um... interments."  
  
"Oh," says Blaine, drawing his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on them. " How many are there?"  
  
"There are 1,137. If you really think you want to find out - "  
  
"I do," says Blaine automatically.  
  
"In that case," says Kurt, "I'd say our best bet is for us to print out a list of the names. You can go through them and circle the likeliest candidates - you know, based on gender, year of birth, year of death, et cetera - and then I'll Google the names as we go. If we don’t find a match, we can look through the list again and widen our search parameters, and if we still haven’t found anything… well, we’ll have to think of something else. I know that's kind of time-consuming but I can't seem to think of a better way."  
  
"No," says Blaine. "That sounds good. I don't mind doing research, do you?"  
  
Kurt shakes his head. "I'm just as curious as you are now."  
  
"All right," says Blaine, stepping off the bed. "Let me turn my printer on."  
  
  
  
_0000_  
  
  
_0000_  
  
  
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This is how they spend the evening.  
  
He can’t imagine what Kurt must be feeling, but Blaine feels as though this particular research project is slowly wringing him dry.  
  
Each name Kurt researches makes Blaine’s heart beat faster – _could this be the one?_ \- and there is almost always a reason that it couldn’t possibly be the man in question. They end up creating a short list of names – the ‘could-be’ list – and the men on it are either people they don’t know enough about or people whose information doesn’t rule out the possibility of them being him.  
  
The work itself is tedious, which is draining in its own way, and on top of everything else, there’s the inevitable sadness that comes with the sheer amount of _death_ he’s facing. _So many young men._ He doesn’t think there’s a disproportional amount, but in a cemetery of 1,137 people, it still turns out to be a depressing number of names. He almost feels like a priest or a pastor, solemnly intoning names at a memorial service: _William V. Balengar_ , he reads to Kurt. _Philip Bianco. James Cavanaugh Campbell. Lester Francis Chenail_. It feels decidedly strange, seeing these names printed out and reading them; some of these names may not have been spoken aloud by anyone in years. Blaine has a sudden macabre vision of skeletons stirring faintly in their coffins (“Yes? Did someone call me?”).  
  
As he goes through the names, it becomes apparent that their candidate criteria include a broad range of men, owing to the fact that they know so little. _Matthew Donovan_ , for example, had made the list; he’d been born nine years before his father and had died in 2010 at the age of 56. And _Anthony Dorsey_ had been born two years after his dad, dying in 1989 at the age of 24.  
  
But at 8:33, an hour and forty-one minutes after they’d started, Kurt looks up at Blaine and says in a slightly choked voice, “I think I found him.”  
  
That short, softly-spoken statement sends Blaine's pulse sky-rocketing. He fumbles for the sheet below him and looks down at the name he’d read to Kurt a few minutes ago. “Which one?" he asks breathlessly. "Andrew McKenna?”  
  
"Yes. I’m almost positive it’s him,” says Kurt. “Here’s his obituary; it was archived in a newspaper called The Greenfield Recorder. Do you want to read it?”  
  
“I can’t right now,” says Blaine unsteadily. “Can you, please?”  
  
“Sure,” says Kurt gently, clearing his throat. “Andrew B. McKenna, age 22 of Turners Falls, Massachusetts died Friday, August 2, 1985 at his parents’ home of complications from pneumonia.”  
  
“Pneumonia? A 22-year-old?”  
  
Kurt shakes his head. “I don’t know. That seems weird to me, too.” He keeps reading:  
  
“Born in Greenfield, he was the son of Clarence and Patricia McKenna and was the brother of Robert McKenna and Kathleen McKenna Golec. Andrew had just completed his Bachelor’s Degree in Economics from North Adams State College in June, and was residing in the town of North Adams prior to his illness. At Turners Falls High School, he was a top student participating in National Honor Society and track and field. He was also a member of Blessed Sacrament Church, where he served in high school as an altar server. Burial will be private.”  
  
Blaine lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “Okay,” he says slowly, trying to process what he’s just heard. “He definitely fits the criteria, but - I mean - are you sure?”  
  
Kurt looks at Blaine sadly and extends a hand toward him. “Come here,” he says softly, almost under his breath.  
  
Nerves thrumming in anticipation, Blaine slides across the bed next to Kurt, who angles the laptop toward him.  
  
Blaine’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of this man. It’s a black-and-white photograph and Blaine’s sure it doesn’t do him justice, but even so - he’s _beautiful_. He’s smiling placidly, but his eyes are dark and full of life. He looks like he’s on the edge of breaking out into a grin, or like he’s _just_ been told a joke and is trying to keep it together long enough to have his picture taken.  
  
But as much as the sight of the picture unnerves him, it's _not_ the reason why all the breath has been forced from his lungs. The reason for that is the caption beneath the photograph; just three simple words that he almost refuses to believe he's seeing:  
  
_Andrew Blaine McKenna._  
  
He stares at the picture for so long that his eyes start to sting.  
  
"Blaine?" asks Kurt tentatively. "Are you okay?"  
  
"He told me," says Blaine hollowly, still staring at the screen, "that I was named for a character in a book he'd read in college."  
  
"What book did he - ?"  
  
"He said... that he couldn't remember the title or the plot anymore. He just remembered... liking the name."  
  
"Blaine... "  
  
"I've always thought was strange," he says, his voice sounding mild and detached to his own ears. "I used to worry when I was little. Like, what if Blaine had been this really evil, _awful_  character and my dad hadn't remembered that? And when I got older..."  
  
"Sweetheart." Kurt's voice is whisper-soft and soothing. Blaine feels like he could sink into it, but he refuses to let himself.  
  
Blaine lifts his arm and gestures toward the laptop, the limb feeling oddly heavy. "I even tried to look up... online, I tried to find ..." He lowers his arm, shakes his head. "I didn't find anything," he whispers, his voice breaking on the last word.  
  
He’s not sure whether it's the gentle pressure of Kurt’s hand on his shoulder that causes him to break down or if he'd started to break down first and Kurt had just been ready for it. But either way it happens - tears spilling down his face as he takes deep gulping breaths. He finds himself being clasped tightly against Kurt’s chest, the solid warmth of his body stifling the sound of Blaine’s crying and the wetness of his tears seeping into the material of Kurt’s shirt.  
  
"Whatever happened," says Kurt as he rubs Blaine’s back,"they must have cared about each other very much.”  
  
“Wh-why didn’t I know?” chokes out Blaine. “Why didn’t he tell me ”  
  
Kurt smiles sadly. “I don’t know, sweetie. I’m sorry.”  
  
"Fuck, he was just so _young_ ,” shudders Blaine, the statement barely intelligible, the words trapped between Blaine's mouth and Kurt's sternum. The rhythm of Kurt's heartbeat soothes him, a steady metronome by which he can control his own breaths and slow his racing thoughts. He pulls back from Kurt a little. “I need – I need to talk my dad. I have to talk to him.”  
  
He feels Kurt’s body tense against him – but then he breathes out slowly, rubbing Blaine’s back with the strong span of his hand. “I understand. Do you want me to leave?”  
  
Blaine feels himself trembling a little. “I think… yeah. Not – not because I want you to, but because I know I have to do this now. I’ll lose my nerve otherwise.”  
  
Kurt tilts Blaine’s face up and kisses him swiftly on the mouth. “All right,” he says shakily. “I know things are bound to be… emotional, Blaine, but just please, _please_ at least text me afterward. I won’t be able to sleep until I know you’re okay.”  
  
"I will.”  
  
A few quick, teary kisses later, Kurt is gone. Blaine’s room has never felt so still or silent, and he finds himself purposely making more noise than necessary as he carries his laptop from his bed to his desk and plugs it in. He stares at the picture on the screen as he clicks on _File_. He’s still staring at it as he clicks on _Print_.  
  
  
  
_0000_  
  
  
_0000_  
  
  
_0000_  
  
  
  
Blaine spends the next half-hour rehearsing what he’s going to say.  
  
He even writes out a few notes to help him organize his thoughts, and he replays his main talking points over and over again in his mind.  
  
It’s 9:15 on a Monday evening, which means that his dad will be downstairs watching TV until at least 10:00. If his mom is downstairs with him, he’ll ask his dad to come up to his room so they can talk alone. If his mom is upstairs reading in bed – her preferred weeknight wind-down activity – then Blaine will join his dad on the couch, ask him politely to shut the TV off, and start talking.  
  
_Just stick to the plan and you’ll be fine_ , he tells himself as he shuts his bedroom door behind him and heads down the staircase to the living room – and of course it turns out that his dad isn’t even _in_ the living room, so phase one of the plan has already been shot to hell.  
  
His mom is curled up on the couch with a bowl of her Weight Watchers popcorn, watching _The Big Bang Theory_. “Hey, Mom. Seen Dad around?”  
  
She glances back toward him briefly. “I think he’s working in his den.”  
  
“Thanks,” Blaine says shortly, considering his options.  
  
Assuming his dad isn’t completely swamped with work, having the conversation in the den could _actually_ work to Blaine’s advantage. It’s more private, for one thing, and the room is very much his dad’s territory, which means he’s less likely to feel caged or guarded.  
  
He makes his way to the landing between the first and second floors that contains the den, a powder room, and a hall closet. Blaine stands outside the room for a minute, composing himself as best he can, and then raps firmly on the door.  
  
“Lynn?”  
  
Blaine clears his throat awkwardly. “Um. No.”  
  
“Blaine?”  
  
“Yeah. Can I come in?”  
  
There’s the slightest of pauses. “Uh… yes. Come in.”  
  
Blaine opens the door slowly, peering into the room.  
  
His dad is seated at his desk, quickly stuffing a small stack of papers into a desk drawer. Blaine is sure the papers are work-related, and he’s equally certain that his dad isn’t trying to be covert about what he’s doing, but the gesture can’t help but annoy him. At the moment, it just seems to symbolize everything that’s wrong in his relationship with his father.  
  
Even from a young age, Blaine’s parents had instilled in him a great respect for people’s _privacy_.  
  
Each of the Andersons has their own space. His father has his den, his mother has her work-out room, and Blaine has his bedroom. It’s understood that these are personal spaces, _not_ to be entered by the other two unless they’re given direct permission. In the Anderson household, the phrases _I’d rather not talk about it_ or _I’d prefer not to say_ are understood to signal the end of a discussion; even Blaine is afforded that privilege. No one wants to feel like they’re prying, or pushing, or making anyone else feel _uncomfortable_.  
  
_When someone says they don’t want to talk about it, you need to respect that. Don’t bother Mommy when she’s in her room. Daddy needs some alone time now, Blaine. It’s rude to ask questions about that kind of thing. That’s personal, Blaine. That’s **private**. _  
  
He hadn’t questioned it when he was younger. But he wonders now if it had been a conscious choice on his parents’ part. _We won’t ask him any uncomfortable questions, he won’t ask us any uncomfortable questions, and we’ll all get along just fine._  
  
Blaine’s thoughts are interrupted by his dad looking up at him, half in expectation and half in annoyance. “Yes?” he prods. “Can I help you?”  
  
It takes every ounce of self-control not to break down at the sound of that distant, too-polite tone. _Can I help you?_ Like he’s walking into a fucking _store_. Like he’s in a _dentist’s_ office. Like he’s standing on a street corner lost and someone sees him looking around in confusion. _Can I help you?_  
  
If the den had windows, the words of his carefully-planned speech would be soaring out of them right now. Blaine grasps the door handle tightly, pulls it shut behind him, plunks himself down in the chair on the opposite side of his father’s desk, and says with grim determination:  
  
“Yes. I’m sorry to bother you, but this is important, Dad. I really want to talk to you.” He takes a deep breath and feels the blood pulse painfully in his wrists. “About Andrew.”  
  
Blaine is prepared for a broad range of reactions - but not this one. Not his father raising an eyebrow and looking at Blaine with _honest_ -to-god bewilderment on his face.  
  
“Who’s Andrew?”  
  
For a second, Blaine falters. Could they possibly have been wrong? But then he thinks about the staggering enormity of the odds – and of the indescribable swoop in his stomach he’d felt when he’d looked at the photograph – no. It’s him. _It’s him._  
  
Blaine tries again.  
  
“Andy.”  
  
His dad’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Blaine, I’m honestly not sure what you’re - ”  
  
“Drew.”  
  
The look that sweeps across his father’s face is nothing short of astonished. Every muscle in his body seems to tense; every bone seems to tighten and draw in on itself.  
  
“ _Drew_ ,” repeats Blaine, more quietly. “That’s… he was your friend, right? The one from college?”  
  
His dad continues to look dazed. “How – Blaine – _how?”_  
  
“I did a little research,” he says quickly, not wanting to elaborate. “I wanted us to be able to talk about him and I wasn’t sure how to start a conversation."  
  
“I  - you - ?” His dad is floundering; he’s utterly adrift. He looks the way _Blaine’s_ been feeling for the past several days. “I don't even know _where_ to - "  There's a moment where he's someone else, someone _not_ Blaine's father - and then he seems to gather himself together, reclaiming all the paternal authority he can muster. He draws himself up straighter in his seat, his eyebrows lifting and his jaw tightening perceptibly.  
  
"As I _assumed_ you gathered from the garage, Blaine, this is not something I’m comfortable talking about.”  
  
I  _know you're not comfortable_ , thinks Blaine. _Believe me, I know. That's the same thing you told me when I asked you about what Grandpa was like. It's also why I've had to learn everything I know about sex from the internet. It's why you cut off every conversation that even vaguely alludes to my being gay. It's why we can't talk about Kurt -_  
  
"Dad,” he says, leaning forward a little. “I _know_ this is hard. But if we limit all our conversations to subjects we’re both comfortable with… what kind of a relationship is that? I have a lot of friends who can only talk to their dads about the weather or the news or sports and – and I just don’t want that to be _us_. We care about each other and we _have things in common_. I know we do.”  
  
His dad is staring at him uncomprehendingly. “And you thought… that this would be a good starting topic?”  
  
Blaine winces slightly. _Well,when you put it like that...._ He clears his throat awkwardly, trying to explain his rationale. "I - I just thought since you’d been friends with someone…who was like _me_ …”  
  
"Yes,” says his father, a little too quickly. “We were friends. Casual friends who shared a few classes and studied together once or twice. I was sorry to hear about… his death.”  
  
Blaine’s heart sinks at what he’s being told, but he tries not to let it show. He also refuses to let his gaze drop away from his father’s face.  
  
“Casual friends?” he echoes.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Blaine's eyes are steady and searching. “He was in your classes? That’s how you knew him?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And you never…? You weren’t close?”  
  
His dad clenches his jaw tightly. “No.”  
  
For reasons Blaine can neither understand nor explain, his dad's staunch denial of Andrew - _Drew_ , he tells himself - feels like a staunch denial of _him_ as well. It feels like his father is ashamed of them, like he's washing his hands of both of these _not-right_ boys. Blaine feels an increasingly-familiar stinging behind his eyes. “ _Please_ don’t lie to me, Dad,” he begs in a choked whisper. “Not about this.”  
  
"Blaine - ”  
  
"He _wasn’t_ just some random guy to you; I know he wasn’t.”  
  
Feeling like he’s been completely hollowed out from the inside, Blaine reaches into his pocket and grips the obituary tightly between his shaking fingers. He quickly unfurls it and sets it down on the desk, shoving it toward his father.  “Look at it,” he says with an unsteady voice, tears blurring his vision. “Look at the picture and tell me _again_ that you never cared about him."  
  
His dad looks down at the photograph - and then literally pushes his seat _backward_ , away from it, pressing a hand to his mouth in shock and letting out a startled, pained cry.  
  
Blaine scrambles to get out of his seat and over to him. “Dad – ”  
  
“ _No_ \- ” He holds a hand out, as if to ward Blaine off.  
  
Blaine can’t see the picture, but he can recall it as easily as if it’s been branded into his memory: The handsome, dark-eyed boy smiling at the camera, with no awareness of what his future holds.  
  
And in his mind’s eye, he can see the caption beneath the photograph: _Andrew Blaine McKenna, 1963-1985._  
  
“Blaine,” says his dad raggedly, “why would you – why on _earth_ would you - ?” He swipes at his eyes with the back of his wrist and takes a deep, shuddering breath. When he finally, _finally_ looks back up at his son, the light of understanding is in his eyes. “My god,” he whispers. “You know. You know about…?”  
  
Blaine bites his lip. “I don’t know _what_ I know, exactly. But I think…that at one point, he was your…?”  
  
“… everything,” whispers his dad, sounding more exhausted than Blaine has ever heard him sound. “At one point, he was my everything.”  
  
“Tell me,” Blaine begs, trying to blink back his tears and failing miserably. “Please. It’s not - I’ve been saying to myself that it’s curiosity, and maybe it is a little, but it’s _so_ much more than that. Because whatever happened to the two of you, I know it has to do with how you feel about me. About who I am.”  
  
His dad puts his elbows on the desk and buries his face in his hands. After a painfully long pause, he begins speaking, his voice sounding raspy and weak.  
  
"In a way, Blaine,” he says, “it almost feels like none of it happened to me. It was a lifetime ago. I’ve relived it so many times, lying awake at night, but I never, never talk about it. It’s been so long and I feel so… disconnected…” He trails off, and Blaine can see him try to collect himself - ever the stoic.  
  
“No one knew,” he continues quietly. “Literally not one person. When he died, I had… never grieved like that, I’d never known I was _capable_ of grieving like that, but no one knew. I’d cut myself off from that life so completely that there was no one to comfort me or share memories of him or… ask how I was holding up. I couldn’t even process it. It didn’t feel real; it felt like I must have dreamed the whole thing. The closest I got was a nurse at a clinic. I went to get a… _test_ done and I was just beside myself. And the nurse asked me what was wrong and I told her that …my ex-girlfriend had died suddenly and I just… broke down in the office. I’m sure I startled her badly.”  
  
“What,” asks Blaine, throat dry, “did he die of?”  
  
His dad presses his lips together in a thin line. “He was a young gay male in the 80s, Blaine.”  
  
Blaine’s heart clenches. “Oh my god. He died of - ”  
  
“AIDS. Yes.”  
  
“And you – didn’t catch it, obviously?” It’s one question containing many implications.  
  
"I tested negative.”  
  
Blaine inhales sharply. There doesn’t seem to be enough air in the room for him. “So you’re not… straight?”  
  
His dad stares unseeingly down at Drew’s picture. “Not entirely, it would seem.”  
  
“And you…” Blaine runs a hand through his curls and tries to breathe as evenly as he can. “You never thought at _any_ point that I deserved to know that? Not when I came out to you? Or after the... dance? Or when I told you about Kurt?”  
  
"I’m not like you, Blaine,” he says. “It’s not something I can… talk about. Your mother doesn’t know, Blaine. No one knows and I’d very much like to keep it that way.”  
  
He’d told himself to expect that answer. He’d prepared himself for it, and he’d told himself not to be hurt when it happened. But apparently he hadn’t done a very good job of listening.  
  
“And Drew was the only…?” A shadow seems to pass across his father’s face every time he says the name. “He was the only…?”  
  
“…the only what, Blaine?”  
  
“I don’t know,” says Blaine wearily. “Boyfriend, I guess? He was your only boyfriend?”  
  
"Yes. First, last, only.”  
  
“And the only man you’ve ever cared about, in that way?”  
  
His dad pauses. “In high school, I had a friend – but it was nothing. He wasn’t like you. Or me. It was one-sided, certainly.”  
  
Blaine tries to process that fact; the simple fact that his father knows what it’s like to fall for a straight boy. If Blaine had known that when he was fourteen – god, the _talks_ they could have had -  
  
"Why did you transfer?” he blurts out suddenly. “Mom said she didn’t know. Did you and Drew have a fight?”  
  
His dad laughs mirthlessly. “A fight would be one way of putting it. Drew and I had a meeting-place, in a grove of trees near Windsor Lake. We used to… be together there. It was stupid and reckless. And we paid for that recklessness the same way you and Steven did.”  
  
Memories from the night in question break through the surface suddenly, unbidden and unwelcome. Blaine had thought he _might_ end that night knowing the taste and touch of a boy's lips against his own. And instead he'd learned for the first time the blunt sharpness of a boy's elbow smashing into his stomach; the raw-boned pressure of a boy's knuckles slamming into his jaw; the feel of a boy's body on top of his, shoving him down against the concrete. Yes, Blaine had learned _a lot_ about teenage boys that night.   
   
He looks up abruptly when his dad begins speaking.  
  
"Between the physical injuries and the rumors about the two of us… it all became too much for me," he intones slowly. "I took the coward’s way out. I transferred. I ran away and I never looked back.”  
  
Blaine has the strangest sensation that he's watching _himself_ in thirty years' time.  _This is the way I will look. These are the things I will tell my son or daughter. This is me._  
  
"Do you think that’s what I am? You think when I transferred I was being a coward?” Blaine isn’t trying to be argumentative or challenging; he honestly wants to know.  
  
His dad shakes his head. “I think you were fourteen years old, Blaine. That’s what I think."  
  
"How old were you when it happened?” asks Blaine. “You couldn’t have been much older than I am now.”  
  
"We weren’t,” says his father quietly. “We were both nineteen.” His breath hitches. “God, one minute we were just… and the next it was a nightmare. It was like I woke up in a nightmare.”   
  
Blaine's vision blurs. "I know what that's like," he whispers.  
  
His Dad reaches for the tissue box on his desk, handing one to Blaine and keeping one for himself. “I know you do," he says, his voice choked with emotion. "And Blaine, you can’t _imagine_ what I felt, seeing you there in the hospital bed. It brought everything back, and it felt like I’d done it _again_ , like I’d failed you the way I’d failed Drew. I thought maybe… I could fix things. Make life better for you.”  
  
"You can’t. Not like that,” says Blaine, sympathetic but firm. “I’m not bi, Dad. I’m gay. I’m never going to have what you have, and that’s fine with me. I want what I have with Kurt. Is that - ?” Blaine tries to phrase this carefully. “You’ve never seemed to be especially fond of Kurt and I as a couple. Is – is this why?”  
  
His dad nods slowly. “Please understand that I’m _not_ ashamed of you, Blaine. But I meant it when I said that I wouldn’t choose this life for you. I’m glad that you can be proud of your orientation. But please respect that I just… can’t be. Not with you and not with myself. It’s difficult for me to associate this with anything other than _danger_. To me, it means… beatings and diseases and ostracism. It means...” His voice breaks, a choked, cracking syllable. “…a boy I loved being lowered underground in a casket, and my fourteen-year-old son in a hospital bed, and me drinking myself into a stupor every night when I was twenty-three. I tried to kill myself, you know. Or… it’s less that I tried to kill myself and more that I did things that could easily have killed me, and didn’t much care what happened.”  
  
Mute horror envelops Blaine. How could he not have known?  
  
He’s lived with his father his whole life. He’s been raised by him. Their bedrooms are across the hall. They share a home, they share a family, and they share seventeen years’ worth of memories. Half of the genes in Blaine’s body are _identical_ to the genes in his father’s and _how could he have had no idea?_  
  
His dad continues. “So the phrase gay pride is...” He laughs bitterly. “... an unfathomable oxymoron to me. I know you feel differently and I’m sorry. I really am.”  
  
Blaine can't _bear_ the guilt and shame he's seeing in his father's eyes. "God," he whispers, "I can’t imagine what you went through.”  
  
"Yes, you can,” says his dad hollowly. “That’s the worst of it for me, Blaine. You _can_ imagine it. You’ve already lived some of it yourself. The taunts, the comments, the… isolation. The violence. You haven’t met anyone living with HIV yet, but if you’re honestly planning on pursuing a music career as a gay male in New York City, then you will soon enough.”  
  
“So you think my relationship with Kurt… puts me in danger,” says Blaine slowly. “That’s the issue?”  
  
"Not - exactly,” he says tiredly. “It’s certainly safer to be in an exclusive relationship. I assume it’s exclusive?”  
  
Blaine nods.  
  
“Okay. Good,” his dad says. “So that’s safer. And Kurt seems like a nice boy. But I worry. He - seems to like drawing a certain amount of attention to himself.”  
  
"And that’s the problem? Kurt would never put me in danger.”  
  
“I’m not saying he’d mean to do it.”  
  
“And I’m saying he wouldn’t do it even accidentally. We take really good care of each other. Kurt’s not reckless; he just doesn’t let people intimidate him. I couldn’t change that about him even if I wanted to, which I don’t. But besides that, is there anything we can do to make our relationship… easier on you?”  
  
His dad stares at him evenly. “Well… _not_ having sex near the hydrangea bushes would make things significantly easier on me.”  
  
Blaine practically recoils. “What? Dad, _first_ of all, Kurt and I were not having sex. We were just kissing.”  
  
He holds his hands up in a surrendering gesture. “Fine. Noted. And your second point?”  
  
A short pause follows that question. “I don’t know,” admits Blaine. “I don’t think I had one. Well – technically, I think we were closer to the forsythia bushes.”  
  
"Also noted.”  
  
“So that’s it, then? That’s the only thing we’ve done that’s upset you?”  
  
His dad stares down at the picture again and looks up at Blaine with a pained expression. “Blaine, I’m honestly not sure what you want me to say.”  
  
"Dad - ”  
  
“Do you want me to say: ‘It would be _helpful_ if Kurt looked a little less like Drew, because every time I see him in the half-light, I swear I’m seeing a ghost?’ Or ‘It would hurt _less_ for me if the two of you didn’t look so in love?’ Or ‘I’d feel better if the two of you agreed to never go anywhere in public together?’ Because all of those statements are entirely true.”  
  
Blaine shuts his mouth, opens it, and shuts it again.  
  
“I’m sorry,” says his dad. “I’m sorry that I can’t be more supportive. I’m sorry that I can’t offer you any help or guidance in this area. The only thing I can really offer you is commiseration. If you ever want to talk about how cruel and unforgiving the world is… _that_ I can help with.”  
  
Blaine gives him a tired smile. “It’s more helpful than you’d think, actually. Just knowing that you know how hard it can be. How hard it _is_.”  
  
"I do. I do know that,” says his dad. He picks up the obituary and holds it out toward Blaine.  
  
"Don’t you want to keep it?” he asks hesitantly.  
  
Their eyes meet as the paper is handed over. “No, Blaine. I don’t.”  
  
Blaine takes the photograph and realizes that he’s being dismissed. “Thank you,” he tells his dad. “This was… well, not _nice_ , I guess, but it was…”  
  
“…necessary?” his dad asks. “Maybe it was. I don’t know.”  
  
“Did it… feel good at all to talk about Drew? I mean, it’s been so long since you’ve been able to.”  
  
“If Kurt _died_ ,” his dad says harshly, “do you think there would ever be a point where it felt _good_ just to talk about it?”  
  
Blaine’s blood freezes in his veins at the thought of it. “Not – not in the short term,” he says cautiously. “But in school, we learned the stages of the grieving process and - ”  
  
His dad’s eyes flash. “I’m well acquainted with the grieving process, thank you.”  
  
"I – but – if you never talk about it - ”  
  
"We just _did_ talk about it.”  
  
"But don’t you think maybe - ?”  
  
“What I _think_ ,” says his father, jerking suddenly out of his seat and standing upright, “is that I’ve suffered enough because of a damn _mistake_ I made thirty years ago.”  
  
“Dad…”  
  
“Blaine - you’re my son, and I care about you. If knowing about… this… has been helpful for you, then I can force myself to be glad we talked about it. But I’m telling you that this is very painful for me. And if you bring it up again? I’ll know you’re doing it either to be cruel or to satisfy your own morbid curiosity.”  
  
Blaine chokes back a lump that’s forming in his throat. “I never meant… I was just trying to understand, that’s all.”  
  
“I know,” says his dad. “But some things just can’t be understood. There’s no explanation, there’s no lesson to be learned. Sometimes things just - ”  
  
Blaine’s cell phone goes off in his pocket. It’s _Bad Romance_ , which is Kurt’s ringtone. Blaine clutches the phone like a life preserver, suddenly desperate for an excuse to leave the room.  
  
“I should take this,” he says, trying to sound apologetic.  
  
“Go ahead.”  
  
“I’ll talk to you later?”  
  
His dad nods and then looks pointedly at the phone. Blaine gives him a brief half-smile and exits the room, a dozen emotions coursing through him as he heads up the stairs and takes the call.  


  
_0000_  
  
  
_0000_  
  
  
_0000_  
  
  
  
“Sorry, I couldn’t wait. Is everything okay?” Kurt asks, voice clipped and high-pitched.  
  
“More or less,” replies Blaine wearily.  
  
"And what’s the… verdict?” asks Kurt uncertainly.  
  
“Well,” says Blaine grimly, as he peels his socks off and tosses them into his hamper. “ _He’s_ not coming out anytime soon, either. Between my dad, Karofsky, the intervention I tried to stage for that guy in my history class, and that time at Cedar Point with Santana, my record stands at… 0 for 4.”  
  
"At least you’re consistent. And at least you’re trying.”  
  
Blaine shakes his head in frustration. “Kurt… am I _stupid_ to hope that things will be different? Better, I mean, for our generation? And even better for the one after? Sometimes it just seems like wishful thinking. Is it?”  
  
Probably,” Kurt concedes. “But to be honest, your naïve optimism is one of the reasons I keep you around. I find it charming.”  
  
Blaine smiles, letting Kurt’s voice settle him back into himself. “Kurt Elizabeth Hummel,” he says steadily, “have I ever told you that you’re my everything?”  
  
"Um. Not to my recollection?”  
  
“Well. You are.” Blaine can practically see Kurt blushing over the phone.  
  
“Thanks,” Kurt says quietly. “Now tell me what happened. I’ve been dying to know.”  
  
This is how they end the evening.  
  
They talk until their voices are hoarse and they leave their phones on as they finally drop off to sleep, each boy placing his cell on the pillow next to his head.  
  
There is  _so much_ they don't know in this moment.  
  
The year is 2011. The future beckons invitingly and they both want to run toward it as fast as their legs will carry them.   
  
They both think they'll be famous, and it turns out only one of them is right.  
  
Kurt has no idea that the _Kiss Me, Kate_ soundtrack on the nightstand next to him will one day have a home on his and Blaine's CD rack, wedged alphabetically between Blaine's copy of _Katy Perry's Greatest Hits_ and a copy of _Kristin Chenoweth: Some Lessons Learned_ that they'll both swear was originally theirs.  
  
And Blaine can't _possibly_ knowthat the guitar leaning against his bed will one day make its way around the world, accompanying its owner to New York, London, Paris, Tokyo, and Milan. It will be played on expensive beds in posh hotels and on balconies that look out over foreign, unfamiliar vistas, and the sound of it will never - _never_ \- fail to make Kurt smile.  
  
They don't know that gay marriage will be legalized for the entirety of the United States in 2027. At the time of the law's passage, only seven states _won't_ have enacted it, and Ohio will be one of those seven. It will be an ugly, bitter fight - and even though neither Kurt nor Blaine nor their four-year-old son Max will be living in Ohio at the time, they will turn on the news and watch as their former neighbors, colleagues, teachers, and classmates list reason after reason that Kurt and Blaine shouldn't be _allowed_ to have what they have, and they will hold each other on the couch and blink the tears back. However long they've dreamed of living in New York, they are born-and-bred Ohio boys and it will hurt, _god, it will hurt_ to see people's hate laid bare like this.  
  
They have no idea right now that the AIDS vaccine will be discovered by a scientist in Norway in 2031. There will be a minor outcry raised by the right-wing in the U.S.  (A _llowing your teenager to receive this vaccination will encourage rampant promiscuity!)_ but it will be largely ignored by a country whose new TV obsession is a reality show where the audience watches horny college students kiss members of both sexes, and then tries to guess whether they're gay, straight, or bi.  _(_ " _You can catch 'Freshman Orientation' on Wednesdays at eight!_ _Watch the make-outs and spot the fake-outs!")_  
  
Kurt and Blaine will be overjoyed when the vaccine is found, but it will never mean to them what it will mean to Nathan. And it will never mean to their son what it will mean to Kurt and Blaine. They'll notice it when they're filling out medical forms for his exclusive private high school. Max will gloss over it, checking the vaccination list off the chart: _Diphtheria, Tetanus, MMR, HPV, Hepatitis, HIV, Typhoid, Polio_. He won't understand, not really. To him, HIV will be something you wouldn't want to catch, certainly, but you're no more likely to catch it than you are to catch Polio or Typhoid. It will be something _old_ people died of - and it will be just _one_ more box to check off on _one_ more form that will take him _one_ step closer to high school.  
  
Speaking of high school -   
  
Kurt will walk down the halls of McKinley again in a few short weeks, head held high and fashion-fabulous, and he'll have no idea that decades in the future, the floors and lockers and windows will be bright and beautiful. There will be an entire wing of McKinley High School dedicated exclusively to the arts. He'll finance it himself, and this section of hall will be called _The Kurt Hummel Runway_. The kids that are shoving him into lockers and throwing him in dumpsters - and the rest of them, the ones who sit by and watch it happen and do _nothing_ \- will one day tell their children that they went to high school with Kurt Hummel. Their children will stare up at them _("Really?_ ") and they'll smile awkwardly back and they won't quite meet their children's eyes.  
  
And _Blaine_ can't possibly know that because of the conversation he had with his father tonight, a fourteen-year-old boy in Topeka, Kansas -  a boy who is quaking and closeted and who could _never_ have afforded higher education on his own - will be able to attend the Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts in four years time. Brendan J. Kirkland will be the first recipient of the _Drew McKenna Memorial Scholarship for LGBTQ Youth_ , sponsored by the Anderson family of Westerville, Ohio.    
  
The two boys curled up on their beds - wanting nothing more than to be bracketed around the other - don't know _any_ of this, and they wouldn't know what to make of it even if they did. They shut their eyes, comforted by the sound of the other's breathing reaching out to them through the phone's speaker, a light caress into their ear.  
  
Kurt falls asleep dreaming of the day when he and Blaine will be older; the day when they’ll share a bed, a home, and a life together, and can do all the things they’ve promised each other they’ll do.  
  
Blaine falls asleep dreaming of two boys kissing in a moonlit grove of trees who had once wished for that same thing, and who had each ended up with something very different.

  
  
_0000_  
  
  
_0000_  
  
  
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Fall 2041  
   
   
The last of autumn’s leaves are clinging to their branches.  
  
It’s November at the Massachusetts University of Liberal Arts, and two boys are traversing the campus footpaths in the dimming light of dusk, speaking quietly but animatedly to one another:  
  
“…which one’s Marco again?” asks a sandy-haired boy in a lilting southern drawl.  
  
"I know I’ve told you about him,” replies a red-haired boy, his voice high-pitched and frustrated. “He’s this catty little twink who lives in the Church Street dorms.  He went to Bellamy with me and he was, like, _unbelievable_ at our prom. He was walking around like, ‘Oooh, make sure not to spill anything on my kilt. It’s a Kurt Hummel original.’ And I’m just like, ‘Baby-doll, do you _really_ think I can’t tell a Kurt Hummel kilt from a Devon Lynnwood?’ I was seriously so pissed when I heard he was coming here, too.”  
  
"Yeah, I remember now. Devon’s going out with him?”  
  
"Let’s not discuss it. It’s entirely too tragic. Fuck, it is freezing, Ryan.”  
  
“We’re almost there.”  
  
“Almost where? You haven’t even told me – oh, no, no, no - you’re taking me to the graveyard?”  
  
"I’m taking you by the graveyard,” says Ryan as he guides them past a gate with a sign that reads Southview Cemetery. The lettering is ornate, but the sign needs to be re-painted; the grounds aren’t as well-maintained as they once were.  
  
"Is it much farther?”  
  
"Maybe ten minutes.” He digs his phone out of his pocket. “I can look it up and let you know for sure.”  
  
"Nah, I trust you.”  
  
They spend the next few minutes walking through the forest in companionable silence. Ryan has to help Jayson (city boy that he is) down a steeper section of hill, and they’re both forced to struggle through a tangle of briars at the edge of the clearing.  
  
"Here,” breathes out Ryan finally once they cross the thicket, and Jayson bites back the whine that had been building in the back of his throat.  
  
Both boys stare out at the sight in front of them. They’re at the far edge of Windsor Lake, looking up at a silver-crescent moon shimmering above them, the light from it spilling out across the icy water. A copse of trees surrounds them; a cluster of sturdy oaks and maples and chestnuts whose naked branches are twisting and stretching toward the dark-blue, cloudless sky.  
  
Ryan half-expects Jayson to make a snappish, unimpressed remark, but the boy next to him has fallen utterly still and silent. If not for the sight of Jayson’s breath, visible in the frigid late-autumn air, Ryan couldn’t have even sworn he was breathing.  
  
"Jayse?” he says softly after a minute or so. “Is everything - ?”  
  
"Sssh,” the boy answers.  
  
After another few minutes of silence, Ryan finds himself blinking back tears from the whip-sharp wind stinging at his eyes and face.  
  
“How…” comes Jayson’s hushed, breathless voice. “…did you find this place?”  
  
Ryan swallows. “I spent a lot of time walking in the woods last year. I – it took me a while to make friends and I missed North Carolina like crazy. This spot was kind of an accident. It’s past the edge of campus and it’s a bitch to get to, so…”  
  
Jayson’s voice is still awed. “Do you think anyone else knows about it?”  
  
Ryan shrugs. “I’ve been here a few times and I’ve never seen footprints or anything. It’d be a good make-out spot, too, when the leaves are on the trees. You’d be pretty hard to see through all the branches. Not that I’m suggesting…” Ryan blushes and ducks his head a little, a shy gesture Jayson has found adorable from the start.  
  
"Shut up and kiss me,” says Jayson, grinning.  
  
Ryan’s eyes widen. “Uh – did you hear the part about the leaves needing to be on the trees?”  
  
Jayson pulls the glove off his left hand, gently pulls off Ryan’s right glove, and twines their fingers together. “I don't have anything to hide,” Jayson tells him steadily. “Do you?”  
  
Ryan stares searchingly at him for the span of several seconds. “No,” he says finally, stepping forward just as Jayson tilts his head up, their lips crashing swiftly together.  
  
They kiss under an open, cloudless sky; they kiss under a canopy of bare-branched trees that conceal little of what surrounds them; they kiss with urgency and affection, their eyes shut and trusting against the coming night.  
  
They kiss in a changed world.  
  
  
  
  
**FIN**

 


End file.
